With all your chambers on the lower floor;
In fact, of stories you will boast no more
Than simply one. 'Tis at the river's side,
And near it grows a noble sycamore;
A velvet lawn of green, outspreading wide,
Slopes smoothly down, to meet the ever-rippling tide.
Mrs. Dana.
49. It is a home to die for, as it stands
Through its vine foliage, sending forth a sound
Of mirthful childhood o'er the green repose