I want the quiet ways of old;
I want my cottage thatched with cloth-of-gold,
The chintz-hung casements, where the April rain
Pattered like music on the window-pane.
I want the jasmined eaves, that from their height
Dropped waxen stars of perfume in the night,
And where each morning, ‘twixt the dawn and dark,
There trilled the lyric of the waking lark.
I want the old barn huddled in the sun -
His pride at zenith and the high noon won;
The gold-brown hills, the fields, the broken fence,
The lilac-tree that shook its innocence
Upon the breeze, that kissed it to the sea.
I want them all - oh, give them back to me!
I want the inglenook, where, half-asleep,
My dog lay gazing at the log fire’s leap,
While those old books I touched with reverent hands
Glowed in the firelight with illumined bands.
I want my birthright back again -
My old town with its rumbling midday train
That drew into the station noisily,
While groups of children watched expectantly.
This mansion house, its stately corridors,
Its Persian rugs and highly-polished floors,
The limousine that waits my beck and call,
The retinue - God! I would give them all
If I might have again the soft caress
Of my old home and all its simpleness.