A House in Hampstead

My house is damp as damp can be, It stands on London clay. And if I move unthinkingly It shakes in a most alarming way. Mayhap it will all come down on me One day.

But through the window I can see The most enchanting apple-tree. In spring-time, there are daffodils And primroses on little hills, And high within my apple-tree A blackbird comes and sings to me; On the black branch he sits and sings Of birds and nests and eggs and things.

I can't remember, as I hear, That old grey London lies so near.