'Tis shadowed by the tulip-tree, 'tis mantled by the vine;

The wild plum sheds its yellow fruit from fragrant thickets nigh,

And flowery prairies from the door stretch till they meet the sky.

There in the boughs that hide the roof the mock-bird sits and sings,

And the hang-bird's brood within its little hammock wsings;

A pebbly brook, where rustling winds among the hopples sweep,

Shall lull thee till the morning sun looks in upon thy sleep.

Bryant