My house is perfect.

　　By great good fortune I have found a housekeeper no less to my mind,

　　a low-voiced, light-footed woman of discreet age, strong and deft enough to render me all the service I require,

　　and not afraid of loneliness.

　　She rises very early.

　　By my breakfast-time there remains little to be done under the roof save dressing of meals.

　　Very rarely do I hear even a clink of crockery; never the closing of a door or window.

　　Oh, blessed silence!

　　My house is perfect.

　　Just large enough to allow the grace of order in domestic circumstance;

　　just that superfluity of inner space, to lack which is to be less than at ones ease.

　　The fabric is sound; the work in wood and plaster tells of a more leisurely and a more honest age than ours.

　　The stairs do not creak under my step; I am attacked by no unkindly draught;

　　I can open or close a window without muscle-ache.

　　As to such trifles as the color and device of wall-paper, I confess my indifference;

　　be the walls only plain, and I am satisfied.

　　The first thing in ones home is comfort;

　　let beauty of detail be added if one has the means, the patience, the eye.

　　To me, this little book-room is beautiful, and chiefly because it is home.

　　Through the greater part of life I was homeless.

　　Many places have I lived, some which my soul disliked, and some which pleased me well;

　　but never till now with that sense of security which makes a home.

　　At any moment I might have been driven forth by evil accident, by disturbing necessity.

　　For all that time did I say within myself:

　　Some day, perchance, I shall have a home;

　　yet the perchance had more and more of emphasis as life went on,

　　and at the moment when fate was secretly smiling on me, I had all but abandoned hope.

　　I have my home at last.

　　This house is mine on a lease of a score of years.

　　So long I certainly shall not live;

　　but, if I did, even so long should I have the money to pay my rent and buy my food.

　　I am no cosmopolite.

　　Were I to think that I should die away from England, the thought would be dreadful to me.

　　And in England, this is the place of my choice; this is my home.

　　My house is perfect.

　　By great good fortune I have found a housekeeper no less to my mind,

　　a low-voiced, light-footed woman of discreet age, strong and deft enough to render me all the service I require,

　　and not afraid of loneliness.

　　She rises very early.

　　By my breakfast-time there remains little to be done under the roof save dressing of meals.

　　Very rarely do I hear even a clink of crockery; never the closing of a door or window.

　　Oh, blessed silence!

　　My house is perfect.

　　Just large enough to allow the grace of order in domestic circumstance;

　　just that superfluity of inner space, to lack which is to be less than at ones ease.

　　The fabric is sound; the work in wood and plaster tells of a more leisurely and a more honest age than ours.

　　The stairs do not creak under my step; I am attacked by no unkindly draught;

　　I can open or close a window without muscle-ache.

　　As to such trifles as the color and device of wall-paper, I confess my indifference;

　　be the walls only plain, and I am satisfied.

　　The first thing in ones home is comfort;

　　let beauty of detail be added if one has the means, the patience, the eye.

　　To me, this little book-room is beautiful, and chiefly because it is home.

　　Through the greater part of life I was homeless.

　　Many places have I lived, some which my soul disliked, and some which pleased me well;

　　but never till now with that sense of security which makes a home.

　　At any moment I might have been driven forth by evil accident, by disturbing necessity.

　　For all that time did I say within myself:

　　Some day, perchance, I shall have a home;

　　yet the perchance had more and more of emphasis as life went on,

　　and at the moment when fate was secretly smiling on me, I had all but abandoned hope.

　　I have my home at last.

　　This house is mine on a lease of a score of years.

　　So long I certainly shall not live;

　　but, if I did, even so long should I have the money to pay my rent and buy my food.

　　I am no cosmopolite.

　　Were I to think that I should die away from England, the thought would be dreadful to me.

　　And in England, this is the place of my choice; this is my home.