Sing we for love and idleness,
Naught else is worth the having.
Though I have been in many a land,
There is naught else in living.
And I would rather have my sweet,
Though rose-leaves die of grieving,
Than do high deeds in Hungary
To pass all men's believing.
when I was probably 3 or 4 years old, my parents lived around Fraser and 21st in Vancouver, in one of those little houses typically rented by immigrant families. I still have dim memories of that house, and the way the back porch gave out onto a little garden that in turn led into a back alley, covered with vines and morning glory.
I am sure that the house my sisters now share in roughly the same area does not really resemble that house from my distant childhood (now torn down and replaced with one of those infamous Monster Houses), yet visiting them gave me a strange feeling of flashback and nostalgia, a sense of green and shade and quiet in the heart of the city.