Letitia Elizabeth Landon (August 14, 1802 – October 15, 1838)
Aye, here, dear love, is just a home,
Like what our home should be;
A home of peace—a home of love—
As made for thee and me.
A cottage with its roof of thatch,
Its porch of the red rose,
Its white walls hidden by the wreath
The bridal jasmine throws.
The rooms are dark, for the green vines
Have twin’d each lattice round;
Where, veil’d by leaves, the wild wind harp
Breathes forth its lonely sound.
And round are many landscapes hung,
Each of some foreign shore,
Of rock, and storm, to make us prize
Our own calm home the more.
A green turf lies before the door,
A fairy carpet spread
With silver daisies—pearls of dew,
Meet for the Elf-queen’s tread.
About are beds of many flowers,
Sweet shrubs, and blossom’d trees;
Beside that elm the dove-cote’s plac’d,
Beneath that ash, the bees.
And there the little green-house stands,
A refuge for the spring;
Where, even in the winter time,
The rose is flourishing.
There is a murmur on the wind,
Of the far billow’s sweep:
Come on this mount of scented plants,
And you can see the deep.
Look to the east, where the grey wave
Is blent with the grey sky,
To where the setting sun has left
It’s purple pageantry.
How pleasant, in another hour,
Our wand’ring there will be!
When the dim ships, like shadows, ride
Over the star-lit sea.
When sailing in the deep blue heav’n,
The moon, like a young bride,
Comes timid, as she fear’d to claim
Her empire o’er the tide.
Then, to return from the white cliffs,
Where winds and waters beat,
How shall we love the leaves and flowers
Of our own calm retreat!
We should be happy;—yet let all
Sweet dreams, like these, depart:
It matters not whate’er his lot,—
Love’s home is in the heart.