The sunlight is spilling its gold on the thatch,
The birds in the garden are still;
And my heart is aglow with those glimpses I catch of my little
Of my little dream house on the hill.
The bright flowered curtains that flirt with the breeze,
The old fashioned mats on the floor,
The delicate blossom that powders the trees
Seem to wait till I step through the door.
How often I’ve pictured the garden at dusk
When the sweet scented stocks fill the air,
All mingled with lavender, roses and musk,
And wished – how I wished I was there.
I live in the city, I’m bound by its chain,
And dreams in the city fare ill;
But if fortune is kind I will one day attain
My little dream house on the hill.
By Donald Ian McGregor
1908 – 1985