Anne's home, not mine!
Although I love our hols I'm always glad to get back. I probably get more homesick than my husband, which is funny as he grew up in our village, whereas I was shipped in a few years ago.
Our camping car is certainly no looming mansion by any stretch of the imagination, and the knotted grass neglected will be found waiting for us in the garden, I know I’ll be sharing Anne’s sentiment by the time this post is published; Oh, give me back my HOME!
Home by Anne Bronte
How brightly glistening in the sun
The woodland ivy plays!
While yonder beeches from their barks
Reflect his silver rays.
That sun surveys a lovely scene
From softly smiling skies;
And wildly through unnumbered trees
The wind of winter sighs:
Now loud, it thunders o'er my head,
And now in distance dies.
But give me back my barren hills
Where colder breezes rise;
Where scarce the scattered, stunted trees
Can yield an answering swell,
But where a wilderness of heath
Returns the sound as well.
For yonder garden, fair and wide,
With groves of evergreen,
Long winding walks, and borders trim,
And velvet lawns between;
Restore to me that little spot,
With gray walls compassed round,
Where knotted grass neglected lies,
And weeds usurp the ground.
Though all around this mansion high
Invites the foot to roam,
And though its halls are fair within --
Oh, give me back my HOME!
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