Classic Poem

O home, people tell us, is home
be it never so homely,
And Meldon's the home where my fathers
all sleep by the knoll.

And there they have left me a living
in land, where, in summer,
My hay, wither'd grey, awaits hauling
in heap by the knoll.

And there, among bright-shining grass-blades,
and bent-grass, in autumn
My cows may all lie near the waters
that creep by the knoll.

And up on the slope of the hillocks,
by white-rinded ash-trees,
Are ledges of grass and of thyme-beds,
with sheep by the knoll.

And down on the west of my house
is a rookery, rocking
In trees that will ward off the winds
that may sweep by the knoll.

And there I have windows outlooking
to blushing-skied sunset,
And others that face the fresh morning's
first peep by the knoll.

And though there is no place but heaven
without any sorrow,
And I, like my fellows, in trial
may weep by the knoll,

Still, while I fulfil, like a hireling,
the day of my labour,
I wish, if my wish is not sinful,
to keep by the knoll.

So if you can find a day empty
of work, with fine weather,
And feel yourself willing to climb
up the steep by the knoll,

Come up, and we'll make ourselves merry
once more all together;
You'll find that your bed and your board
shall be cheap by the knoll.