And a hedge of sumach and sassafras,
With bluebirds twittering all around,—
(Ah, good painter, you can’t paint sound)—
These and the house where I was born,
Low and little, and black and old,
With children, many as it can hold,
All at the windows, open wide,—
Heads and shoulders clear outside,
And fair young faces all ablush:
Perhaps you may have seen, some day,