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Poems about Home

Table of Contents

  1. Home, Sweet Home! by John Howard Payne
  2. Morning Windows by Anonymous
  3. Home From School by Amos Russel Wells
  4. To Our Good House by Annette Wynne
  5. At Home by Mary Tarver Carroll
  6. Home (I) by Margaret Miller Davidson
  7. Home (II) by Margaret Miller Davidson
  8. Nesting by Amos Russel Wells
  9. Returning by Emily Dickinson
  10. At Home by Emily Dickinson
  11. The Return by Emily Dickinson
  12. The Homestead by Bliss Carman
  13. Sea-Birds by Elizabeth Akers
  14. The Homestead by M. P. A. Crozier
  15. The Old Homestead by William Henry Venable
  1. Home by Eliza and Sarah Wolcott
  2. Home by Edgar A. Guest
  3. The House with Nobody In It by Joyce Kilmer
  4. Our Homestead by Phoebe Cary
  5. A Prayer for a Little Home by Anonymous
  6. A Thankful Heart by Robert Herrick
  7. Kneeling With Herrick by James Whitcomb Riley
  8. A Wish by S. Rogers
  9. Maxims for an Old House by Anna Hempstead Branch
  10. His Coming by Amos Russel Wells
  11. Excerpt from "Better Than Gold" by Father Ryan
  12. Home Memories by Kate Slaughter McKinney
  13. The Little Front Gate by Kate Slaughter McKinney
  14. A Warm House and a Ruddy Fire by Edgar A. Guest
  15. Song for a Little House by Christopher Morley
  16. Welcome by Hulda Fetzer
  17. My Old Prairie Home by Ed Blair
  18. Coming Home by Ellen P. Allerton
  19. When Arbutus Blooms Again by E. F. Hayward
  20. Our Prairie Homes by Charles J. Barber
  21. My Cabin Home by Florence Kellett
  22. An Irish Immigrant by Florence Kellett
  23. The Little Plant on the Window Speaks by Annette Wynne
  24. The Little Window by Annette Wynne
  25. First of May by Nicholas Lester
  26. To Make a House by Annette Wynne
  27. Homes by Annette Wynne
  28. A Rainy Sunday by Ruby Archer
  29. The Home-Coming by Ruby Archer
  30. The Deserted Cabin by Ruby Archer
  31. The Smoke of Cottage Chimneys by Arthur Goodenough
  32. Home is Where There's One to Love Us by Charles Swain
  33. Good Old Days by Floyd D. Raze

  1. Home, Sweet Home!

    To thee I'll return, overburdened with care;
    The heart's dearest solace will smile on me there;

    – John Howard Payne
    Home, Sweet Home!
    by John Howard Payne

    'Mid pleasures and Palaces though we may roam,
    Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home!
    A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there,
    Which seek through the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere.
    Home! Home! sweet sweet Home!
    There's no place like Home! There's no place like Home!

    An exile from Home Splendour dazzles in vain.
    Oh! give me my lowly thatch'd Cottage again!
    The Birds singing gaily that came at my call.
    Give me them with the peace of mind dearer than all!
    Home! Home! sweet sweet Home!
    There's no place like Home! There's no place like Home!

    How sweet 'tis to sit 'neath a fond father's smile,
    And the cares of a mother to soothe and beguile!
    Let others delight 'mid new pleasures to roam,
    But give me, oh give me, the pleasures of Home!
    Home! Home! sweet sweet Home!
    There's no place like Home! There's no place like Home!

    To thee I'll return, overburdened with care;
    The heart's dearest solace will smile on me there;
    No more from that cottage again will I roam;
    Be it ever so humble, there's no place like Home.
    Home! Home! sweet sweet Home!
    There's no place like Home! There's no place like Home!

  2. Morning Windows

    by Amos Russel Wells

    The brightest thing a house can do,
    When morning fills the skies,
    Is just to catch the sun's first rays,
    And flash the brilliant prize.

    No eighty-candle lights within
    Can match the dazzling sight,
    And every window-pane becomes
    A fusillade of light!

    Thus, thus it is when households kneel
    In humble morning prayer.
    The very Sun of Righteousness
    Is caught and captured there:

    And all the day, in all its ways,
    However dull they be,
    The happy windows of that home
    Are scintillant to see!

  3. Home From School

    The very sunshine laughs to see
    The children home from school!

    – Amos R. Wells
    Home From School
    by Amos Russel Wells

    The western sun comes softly in
    Through hall door open wide,
    Young Rover lies with low-stretched chin
    Upon the steps outside.
    The great hall clock ticks sleepily;
    A hint of clucking hen
    Conies from the yard uncertainly,
    Then all is still again.

    But hark! A banging of the gate!
    A clatter up the walk!
    A tangle of blithe sounds elate
    In song and laugh and talk!
    Loud strikes the clock the chickens flee,
    Rover's a frantic fool;
    The very sunshine laughs to see
    The children home from school!

  4. To Our Good House

    by Annette Wynne

    This is our house for work and play—
    A pleasant place all through the day;
    Shine in on us, O kindly sun,
    Until the glad day's work is done;
    And then across the world of night
    Shine out, dear home, the source of light;
    This is our house for work and play—
    For us and you that come our way!

  5. At Home

    by Mary Tarver Carroll

    You may seek for the end of the rainbow
    Over mountains and valleys afar,
    You may wend weary miles in your questing
    Until evening blossoms a star—
    When homeward you turn, disappointed,
    Heartsick at the end of your dream—
    You see from your small cottage window
    A bright, broad ruddy beam
    That beckons you in "O come hither,
    Too long from the fireside you roam,
    The goal of real joy that you seek for
    Is found nowhere else but at home!"

  6. Home (I)

    But home, that sacred, pure retreat,
    Where dwells my heart in all that's sweet,

    – Margaret Miller Davidson
    by Margaret Miller Davidson

    Yonder orb of dazzling light,
    Sinks beneath the robe of night,
    And the moon so sweetly pale,
    Waits to lift her silver veil.
    One by one the stars appear,
    Glittering in the heavenly sphere,
    And sparkling in their bright array,
    Welcome in the close of day.
    But home, that sacred, pure retreat,
    Where dwells my heart in all that's sweet,
    And my own stream, where oft I've stray'd,
    And mark'd the beams that o'er it play'd,
    Is far away, o'er the waters blue,
    Far from my fondly straining view.

  7. Home (II)

    by Margaret Miller Davidson

    I would fly from the city, would fly from its care,
    To my own native plants and my flow'rets so fair,
    To the cool grassy shade and the rivulet bright,
    Which reflects the pale moon in its bosom of light;
    Again would I view the old cottage so dear,
    Where I sported a babe, without sorrow or fear;
    I would leave this great city, so brilliant and gay,
    For a peep at my home on this fair summer day.

    I have friends whom I love, and would leave with regret,
    But the love of my home, oh! 'tis tenderer yet;
    There a sister reposes unconscious in death,
    'Twas there she first drew, and there yielded her breath.
    A father I love is away from me now,
    Oh! could I but print a sweet kiss on his brow,
    Or smooth the gray locks to my fond heart so dear,
    How quickly would vanish each trace of a tear.
    Attentive I listen to pleasure's gay call,
    But my own happy home—it is dearer than all.

  8. Nesting

    by Amos Russel Wells

    NEST-ing, nesting, you and I,
    EST-imating what to buy,
    ST-ealing now and then a kiss,
    T-ip and top of human bliss!
    N-ot a worry or a fear,
    NE-ar or far with you, my dear!
    NES-cience to heaven nigh;
    NEST-ing, nesting, you and I.

  9. Returning

    by Emily Dickinson

    I years had been from home,
    And now, before the door,
    I dared not open, lest a face
    I never saw before

    Stare vacant into mine
    And ask my business there.
    My business, — just a life I left,
    Was such still dwelling there?

    I fumbled at my nerve,
    I scanned the windows near;
    The silence like an ocean rolled,
    And broke against my ear.

    I laughed a wooden laugh
    That I could fear a door,
    Who danger and the dead had faced,
    But never quaked before.

    I fitted to the latch
    My hand, with trembling care,
    Lest back the awful door should spring,
    And leave me standing there.

    I moved my fingers off
    As cautiously as glass,
    And held my ears, and like a thief
    Fled gasping from the house.

  10. At Home

    by Emily Dickinson

    The night was wide, and furnished scant
    With but a single star,
    That often as a cloud it met
    Blew out itself for fear.

    The wind pursued the little bush,
    And drove away the leaves
    November left; then clambered up
    And fretted in the eaves.

    No squirrel went abroad;
    A dog's belated feet
    Like intermittent plush were heard
    Adown the empty street.

    To feel if blinds be fast,
    And closer to the fire
    Her little rocking-chair to draw,
    And shiver for the poor,

    The housewife's gentle task.
    "How pleasanter," said she
    Unto the sofa opposite,
    "The sleet than May — no thee!"

  11. The Return

    by Emily Dickinson

    Though I get home how late, how late!
    So I get home, 't will compensate.
    Better will be the ecstasy
    That they have done expecting me,
    When, night descending, dumb and dark,
    They hear my unexpected knock.
    Transporting must the moment be,
    Brewed from decades of agony!

    To think just how the fire will burn,
    Just how long-cheated eyes will turn
    To wonder what myself will say,
    And what itself will say to me,
    Beguiles the centuries of way!

  12. The Homestead

    Oh, be merciful and fond
    To the house that gave
    All its best to shelter love,

    – Bliss Carman
    The Homestead
    by Bliss Carman

    Here we came when love was young.
    Now that love is old,
    Shall we leave the floor unswept
    And the hearth acold?

    Here the hill-wind in the dusk,
    Wandering to and fro,
    Moves the moonflowers, like a ghost
    Of the long ago.

    Here from every doorway looks
    A remembered face,
    Every sill and panel wears
    A familiar grace.

    Let the windows smile again
    To the morning light,
    And the door stand open wide
    When the moon is bright.

    Let the breeze of twilight blow
    Through the silent hall,
    And the dreaming rafters hear
    How the thrushes call.

    Oh, be merciful and fond
    To the house that gave
    All its best to shelter love,
    Built when love was brave!

    Here we came when love was young,
    Now that love is old,
    Never let its day be lone,
    Nor its heart acold!

  13. Sea-Birds

    O restless, homeless human soul,
    Where is thy mate, and where thy nest?

    – Elizabeth Akers
    by Elizabeth Akers

    O lonesome sea-gull, floating far
    Over the ocean's icy waste,
    Aimless and wide thy wanderings are,
    Forever vainly seeking rest:—
    Where is thy mate, and where thy nest?

    'Twixt wintry sea and wintry sky,
    Cleaving the keen air with thy breast,
    Thou sailest slowly, solemnly;
    No fetter on thy wing is pressed:—
    Where is thy mate, and where thy nest?

    O restless, homeless human soul,
    Following for aye thy nameless quest,
    The gulls float, and the billows roll;
    Thou watchest still, and questionest:—
    Where is thy mate, and where thy nest?

  14. The Homestead

    by M. P. A. Crozier

    The years, like humming birds,
    Just poised a moment on the wing,
    To sip the nectar from the cup
    Of life's sweet offering;

    The homestead's old familiar halls,
    The grassy meadow where I played,
    The orchard with its melting fruit,
    And soft refreshing shade;

    The blacksmith-shop where, all day long,
    My noble father toiled and sang,
    Where in the morning and at eve,
    The music of the anvil rang;

    The garden with its spreading vines,
    Its roses and its daffodils;
    The dark old forest in the east;
    Beyond the heaven-aspiring hills.

  15. The Old Homestead

    by William Henry Venable

    Enshrined among roses
    The Homestead reposes
    With vines mantled o'er;
    Ground-ivy and clover
    Are running all over
    The stone at the door.

    Pinks, lilies, are blowing,
    Blue violets showing
    Gold hearts to the June;
    Bees going and coming
    Keep evermore humming
    Their Hyblean tune.

    'Twas here that I wasted
    Youth's flower and tasted
    Love's first honey-dew;
    A boy here I slumbered,
    By care unencumbered,
    Long, balmy nights through.

    The wood-birds each morning
    Gave musical warning
    For shadows to fly;
    Their rhapsody choral
    Foretold the auroral
    First flush of the sky.

    With rising emotion
    Akin to devotion
    The scene I behold;—
    With fond recollections
    Of tender affections
    Too sweet to be told.

  16. Home

    Home is a safe, a calm retreat,
    To rest the weary soul;
    Home makes one's happiness complete,
    Where love commands the whole.

    - Eliza Wolcott
    by Eliza and Sarah Wolcott

    Home has a thousand pleasing bands,
    A thousand charms are there;
    At home we form our wisest plans,
    And all our schemes prepare.

    Home is a safe, a calm retreat,
    To rest the weary soul;
    Home makes one's happiness complete,
    Where love commands the whole.

    At home, congenial souls we find,
    We breathe in native air;
    At home our thoughts are unconfin'd,—
    Security is there.

    Deception finds no place at home,
    No false or vain applause;
    Thrice blessed home! ah, who would roam
    Without a powerful cause.

    Some lose their sympathies abroad,
    By fashion's changing laws;
    Some lose their Bible, and their God,
    And never know the cause.

    But some remember home at last,
    Where first they lisp'd a prayer;
    And beg for pardon for the past,
    And now the promise share.

  17. Home

    by Edgar A. Guest

    It takes a heap o' livin' in a house t' make it home,
    A heap o' sun an' shadder, an' ye sometimes have t' roam
    Afore ye really 'preciate the things ye left behind,
    An' hunger fer 'em somehow, with 'em allus on yer mind.
    It don't make any differunce how rich ye get t' be,
    How much yer chairs an' tables cost, how great yer luxury;
    It ain't home t' ye, though it be the palace of a king,
    Until somehow yer soul is sort o' wrapped 'round everything.

    Home ain't a place that gold can buy or get up in a minute;
    Afore it's home there's got t' be a heap o' livin' in it:
    Within the walls there's got t' be some babies born, and then
    Right there ye've got t' bring 'em up t' women good, an' men;
    And gradjerly, as time goes on ye find ye wouldn't part
    With anything they ever used—they've grown into yer heart;
    The old high chairs, the playthings, too, the little shoes they wore
    Ye hoard; an' if ye could ye'd keep the thumbmarks on the door.

    Ye've got t' weep t' make it home, ye've got t' sit and sigh
    An' watch beside a loved one's bed, an' know that Death is nigh;
    An' in the stillness o' the night t' see Death's angel come,
    An' close the eyes o' her that smiled, an' leave her sweet voice dumb.
    Fer these are scenes that grip the heart, an' when yer tears are dried,
    Ye find the home is dearer than it was, an' sanctified;
    An' tuggin' at ye always are the pleasant memories
    O' her that was an' is no more—ye can't escape from these.

    Ye've got t' sing and dance fer years, ye've got t' romp an' play,
    An' learn t' love the things ye have by usin' 'em each day;
    Even the roses 'round the porch must blossom year by year
    Afore they 'come a part o' ye, suggestin' someone dear
    Who used t' love 'em long ago, an' trained 'em jes' t' run
    The way they do, so's they would get the early mornin' sun;
    Ye've got t' love each brick an' stone from cellar up t' dome:
    It takes a heap o' livin' in a house f' make it home.

  18. The House with Nobody In It

    by Joyce Kilmer

    Whenever I walk to Suffern along the Erie track
    I go by a poor old farm-house with its shingles broken and black;
    I suppose I've passed it a hundred times, but I always stop for a minute
    And look at the house, the tragic house, the house with nobody in it.

    I've never seen a haunted house, but I hear there are such things;
    That they hold the talk of spirits, their mirth and sorrowings.
    I know that house isn't haunted and I wish it were, I do,
    For it wouldn't be so lonely if it had a ghost or two.

    This house on the road to Suffern needs a dozen panes of glass,
    And somebody ought to weed the walk and take a scythe to the grass.
    It needs new paint and shingles and vines should be trimmed and tied,
    But what it needs most of all is some people living inside.

    If I had a bit of money and all my debts were paid,
    I'd put a gang of men to work with brush and saw and spade.
    I'd buy that place and fix it up the way that it used to be,
    And I'd find some people who wanted a home and give it to them free.

    Now a new home standing empty with staring window and door
    Looks idle perhaps and foolish, like a hat on its block in the store,
    But there's nothing mournful about it, it cannot be sad and lone
    For the lack of something within it that it has never known.

    But a house that has done what a house should do, a house that has sheltered life,
    That has put its loving wooden arms around a man and his wife,
    A house that has echoed a baby's laugh and helped up his stumbling feet,
    Is the saddest sight, when it's left alone, that ever your eyes could meet.

    So whenever I go to Suffern along the Erie track
    I never go by the empty house without stopping and looking back,
    Yet it hurts me to look at the crumbling roof and the shutters fallen apart,
    For I can't help thinking the poor old house is a house with a broken heart.

  19. Our Homestead

    My father's look, and my mother's smile,—
    They are in my heart to-night.

    - Phoebe Cary
    Our Homestead
    by Phoebe Cary

    Our old brown homestead reared its walls,
    From the wayside dust aloof,
    Where the apple-boughs could almost cast
    Their fruitage on its roof:
    And the cherry-tree so near it grew,
    That when awake I've lain,
    In the lonesome nights, I've heard the limbs,
    As they creaked against the pane:
    And those orchard trees, O those orchard trees!
    I've seen my little brothers rocked
    In their tops by the summer breeze.

    The sweet-brier under the window-sill,
    Which the early birds made glad,
    And the damask rose by the garden fence
    Were all the flowers we had.
    I've looked at many a flower since then,
    Exotics rich and rare,
    That to other eyes were lovelier,
    But not to me so fair;
    O those roses bright, O those roses bright!
    I have twined them with my sister's locks,
    That are hid in the dust from sight!

    We had a well, a deep old well,
    Where the spring was never dry,
    And the cool drops down from the mossy stones
    Were falling constantly:
    And there never was water half so sweet
    As that in my little cup,
    Drawn up to the curb by the rude old sweep,
    Which my father's hand set up;
    And that deep old well, O that deep old well!
    I remember yet the splashing sound
    Of the bucket as it fell.

    Our homestead had an ample hearth,
    Where at night we loved to meet;
    There my mother's voice was always kind,
    And her smile was always sweet;
    And there I've sat on my father's knee,
    And watched his thoughtful brow,
    With my childish hand in his raven hair,—
    That hair is silver now!
    But that broad hearth's light, O that broad hearth's light!
    And my father's look, and my mother's smile,—
    They are in my heart to-night.

  20. A Prayer for a Little Home

    by Anonymous

    God send us a little home
    To come back to when we roam—
    Low walls and fluted tiles,
    Wide windows, a view for miles;
    Red firelight and deep chairs;
    Small white beds upstairs;
    Great talk in little nooks;
    Dim colors, rows of books;

    One picture on each wall;
    Not many things at all.
    God send us a little ground—
    Tall trees standing round,
    Homely flowers in brown sod,
    Overhead, Thy stars, O God!
    God bless, when winds blow,
    Our home and all we know.

  21. A Thankful Heart

    All these, and better, thou dost send
    Me, to this end,—
    That I should render, for my part,
    A thankful heart;

    - Robert Herrick
    A Thankful Heart
    by Robert Herrick

    Lord, thou hast given me a cell,
    Wherein to dwell;
    A little house, whose humble roof
    Is weather proof;
    Under the spars of which I lie
    Both soft and dry;
    Where thou, my chamber for to ward,
    Hast set a guard
    Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep
    Me, while I sleep.

    Low is my porch, as is my fate;
    Both void of state;
    And yet the threshold of my door
    Is worn by th’ poor,
    Who thither come, and freely get
    Good words, or meat.
    Like as my parlour, so my hall
    And kitchen’s small;
    A little buttery, and therein
    A little bin,
    Which keeps my little loaf of bread
    Unchipt, unflead;
    Some brittle sticks of thorn or briar
    Make me a fire,
    Close by whose living coal I sit,
    And glow like it.
    Lord, I confess too, when I dine,
    The pulse is thine,
    And all those other bits that be
    There placed by thee;
    The worts, the purslain, and the mess
    Of water-cress,
    Which of thy kindness thou hast sent;
    And my content
    Makes those, and my belovèd beet,
    To be more sweet.
    ’Tis thou that crown’st my glittering hearth
    With guiltless mirth,
    And giv’st me wassail bowls to drink,
    Spiced to the brink.
    Lord, ’tis thy plenty-dropping hand
    That soils my land,
    And giv’st me, for my bushel sown,
    Twice ten for one;
    Thou mak’st my teeming hen to lay
    Her egg each day;
    Besides, my healthful ewes to bear
    Me twins each year;
    The while the conduits of my kine
    Run cream, for wine:
    All these, and better, thou dost send
    Me, to this end,—
    That I should render, for my part,
    A thankful heart;
    Which, fired with incense, I resign,
    As wholly thine;
    —But the acceptance, that must be,
    My Christ, by Thee.

  22. Kneeling With Herrick

    by James Whitcomb Riley

    Dear Lord, to Thee my knee is bent.—
    Give me content—
    Full-pleasured with what comes to me,
    What e'er it be:
    An humble roof—a frugal board,
    And simple hoard;
    The wintry fagot piled beside
    The chimney wide,

    While the enwreathing flames up-sprout
    And twine about
    The brazen dogs that guard my hearth
    And household worth:
    Tinge with the ember's ruddy glow
    The rafters low;
    And let the sparks snap with delight,
    As ringers might
    That mark deft measures of some tune
    The children croon:
    Then, with good friends, the rarest few
    Thou holdest true,
    Ranged round about the blaze, to share
    My comfort there,—
    Give me to claim the service meet
    That makes each seat
    A place of honor, and each guest
    Loved as the rest.

  23. A Wish

    by Samuel Rogers

    Mine be a cot beside the hill;
    A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear;
    A willowy brook that turns a mill
    With many a fall shall linger near.

    The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch
    Shall twitter from her clay-built nest;
    Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,
    And share my meal, a welcome guest.

    Around my ivied porch shall spring
    Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew;
    And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing
    In russet gown and apron blue.

    The village church among the trees,
    Where first our marriage-vows were given,
    With merry peals shall swell the breeze
    And point with taper spire to Heaven.

  24. Maxims for an Old House

    by Anna Hempstead Branch

    God rest you all that linger here,
    Though you be strange you still are dear.
    Peace to your hearts, if you abide,
    Reflect, and give your souls to cheer.

    Oh thou, the youngest of this race
    Sojourning now in their old place,
    Think thou kind thoughts and dream fair dreams,
    For such as this thy line beseems.

    If underneath the quiet eaves
    You hear the pushing of vague leaves—
    'T is these old beams, remembering
    How sweet the forests were in spring.

    I reach abroad my wistful palms,
    As beggars cry, "An alms, an alms."
    Leave thou some kindliness in me
    That these old rooms may better be.

    All they that spent their days in grace
    Have left a blessing on this place.
    Then gentle be that speech that falls,
    Lest ye offend these placid walls.

    She was so young, so light, so fair!
    I loved her footfall on the stair,
    Her voice fell bright through this dim air.
    I would have kept my dear, but she
    Like thou —like thou— must pass from me.

    How intimate and yet how strange!
    How calm I am that never change.
    All day I think, as I abide,
    How many folk have in me died.
    To sleep, to dream, to smile, to lie
    And still dream on as night goes by,
    It may be when thy time shall come
    It shall not seem more sad to die.

    Amid the clinging world I guess
    Their subtle bands contrive to bless.
    And from this ancient dust I see
    Ancestral eyes peer forth at me.

    The thorn that by the wayside grows
    Comforts the pilgrim with a rose.
    Do thou, like him, to charm thy gloom
    Perceive the sweetness of this room.
    If thou perchance shouldst see a face
    Smile at thee from an empty space,
    Or feel some presence, do not fear,
    Those ghosts are kind that loiter here.
    I met a stranger in this room,
    He moved about and seemed at home.
    "Good sir," said I, "what dost thou here?"
    He turned a pleasant face and said,
    "A hundred years have I been dead."

    Ye who have come to such an age
    Ye dream of that Great Pilgrimage,
    Think not to bid this roof farewell.
    Lo! our old smiles shall give you rest
    In those new mansions of the blest.

    These words in time shall pass away
    And moulder with the mouldering clay.
    Learn thou that only passing things
    May know the blessedness of wings.

  25. His Coming

    by Amos Russel Wells

    Were a king to come to my lowly home,
    Or a prince or a duke or an earl,
    What a cleansing would furbish the whole of the house,
    Till it shone as pure as a pearl!

    How the best that I had, on the floor and the bed,
    On table and mantel and wall,
    Would gladly be lavished and eagerly spread,
    And I be ashamed of it all!

    Yet the Monarch of mouarchs, the Only Supreme,
    The Lord whom the heavens obey,
    The Splendor that passes the height of a dream,
    Will visit my household to-day;

    And the shutters are closed, and the cobwebs are thick,
    And a hinge is off of the door,
    And I, in a garment of wretchedness clad,
    Am down in the dirt on the floor!

  26. Excerpt from "Better Than Gold"

    by Father Ryan

    Better than gold is a peaceful home,
    Where all the fire-side charities come—
    The shrine of love, the heaven of life,
    Hallowed by mother, or sister, or wife.
    However humble the home may be,
    Or tried with sorrow by Heaven's decree,
    The blessings that never were bought or sold,
    And center there, are better than gold.

  27. Home

    by William Henry Dawson

    The house in which one lives is but a shell
    Of stone, and wood, and clay with paint spread o'er,
    And when sweet stories about home we tell,
    We mean not just the house alone, but more.
    When one has kissed his loved ones a good-bye,
    And for a fortnight travels to and fro,
    Returns unto his home the latch to try,
    And finds the pesky little thing won't go,
    And takes his night key and unlocks the door,
    And finds the house as quiet as a mouse—
    His wife and babies, just the day before
    Had gone—it is not home. It's just a house.
    It's then one comes to really understand
    The meaning, in its truest sense, of home.
    It's then that all the houses in the land,
    Builded earth wide and high as heaven's dome,
    With floors of gold, and walls of jassamine,
    And ceilings all bedecked with jewels rare,
    Mantels of pearl, and bric-a-brac thrown in,
    Would not be home, with wife and babes not there.

  28. Home Memories

    by Kate Slaughter McKinney

    I am thinking of a cottage
    Where the roses used to bloom,
    How they talked beside the pavement
    In low whispers of perfume,
    Or climbed up beside the window
    To look in my little room.

    I am thinking of the door-way
    Where the vine I used to train,
    That snowed down its flaky petals
    With a pleasant summer rain;
    Where I used to sit and listen
    To the old mill’s low refrain.

    I’m thinking of the sunflower, too,
    That towered above the gate;
    Of the friends who called me hither
    When the day was cool and late.
    Ah! those hours seem so distant
    And the year, an ancient date.

    I am thinking of the grape-vine
    Where the crippled robin fed,
    How he lingered there each morning
    ’Till fresh crumbs for him were spread.
    Is he feeding there this summer
    From a stranger’s hand, instead?

    I am thinking of the children
    Who crept to the little yard,
    Begging me to grant permission
    That they play upon the sward.
    Could I bar them from the entry?
    Thus might Heaven me discard.

    I am thinking of a morning
    That wrung from my heart a sigh,
    When I kissed warm lips that trembled,
    With a tear-drop in my eye;
    While I closed our cottage windows
    And pronounced the word—good-bye.

  29. The Little Front Gate

    by Kate Slaughter McKinney

    A way from the world and its bustle,
    When the daylight grows pleasant and late;
    In our own cosy cot, I am waiting
    For the slam of the little front gate.

    The birds at the doorway are singing,
    The roses their beauty debate;
    But I sit here alone, and I listen
    For the slam of the little front gate.

    Sometimes, ere the shadows of twilight
    Send the roving bird home to its mate,
    I list for a hurrying footstep,
    And the slam of the little front gate.

    O! you who are burdened with sorrow,
    And believe that life is but fate,
    Learn from me there is joy in waiting
    For the slam of the little front gate.

  30. A Warm House and a Ruddy Fire

    by Edgar A. Guest

    A warm house and a ruddy fire,
    To what more can man aspire?
    Eyes that shine with love aglow,
    Is there more for man to know?

    Whether home be rich or poor,
    If contentment mark the door
    He who finds it good to live
    Has the best that life can give.

    This the end of mortal strife!
    Peace at night to sweeten life,
    Rest when mind and body tire,
    At contentment's ruddy fire.

    Rooms where merry songs are sung,
    Happy old and glorious young;
    These, if perfect peace be known,
    Both the rich and poor must own.

    A warm house and a ruddy fire,
    These the goals of all desire,
    These the dream of every man
    Since God spoke and life began.

  31. Welcome

    by Hulda Fetzer

    Out in the world as sadly I yearn
    For friends I've not seen a long while;
    I know they will welcome me on my return,
    And welcome me back with a smile.

    But those who are closer, who are my own,
    Those who are very dear,
    They'll lovingly welcome me back home,
    And welcome me back with a tear.

  32. My Old Prairie Home

    by Ed Blair

    Dear old home of my youth in the long, long ago,
    Where the sunshine each morn filled the air,
    Where the meadow lark rose from the tall prairie grass
    As it warbled its sweet carols there.
    Oh I think of that home dear old home far away
    That was then on the wild prairie wide,
    Where each night I was tucked in the old trundle bed
    On the floor by the old fireside.

    In my fancy I see once again the old home,
    Dear log house father built long ago,
    Its steep roof made of slabs and its chimney of stone,
    With my name roughly carved below.
    There it stood many years ere another was built
    On the prairie around anywhere,
    And its light was a guide to the traveler lone,
    And its doors ever welcomed him there.

    There at night music sweet from the old violin
    Floated out on the sweet, balmy air,
    While I drifted to sleep in the old trundle bed—
    Peaceful sleep without ever a care.
    Oh bring back again the old home of my youth
    Where the grass rolled like waves of the sea,
    Where the dear wild flowers bloomed, where the lark sang so sweet,
    Oh my old prairie home let me see!

    There the low muffled tone of the prairie hen's mate
    Floated in from the prairie around,
    And away in the distance the wild deer roamed free,
    Then unknown the fierce bay of the hound,
    And at noon dear Bob White from the hedge piped his strain,
    Coming night brought the dove's mournful lay,
    And the song of the cricket and Katy-did rang
    From the grass till the breaking of day.

  33. Coming Home

    by Ellen P. Allerton

    Home to my mother's door. Push back the lock,
    She will not open it—no use to knock.
    A weight is on my breast; oh! never yet
    Daughter at mother's door such welcome met!

    No kiss upon my lips; no word, no sound,
    No loving arms reach out to clasp me round,
    I cross the threshold to a solemn room,
    Peopled with shadows, silent as the tomb.

    The heavy air is chill—no fire, no light;
    Only pale sunshine, streaming thin and white
    Through the bare panes upon the naked floor.
    I shrink and shiver—do not shut the door!

    Tread lightly on the creaking boards, speak low;
    Start not the hollow echoes; well I know
    They sleep in every corner. Do not call,
    Lest they should answer loudly, one and all.

    Her voice is still. 'Twas here I heard it last—
    Here by the door. The tears fell thick and fast
    From both our eyes; to-day the drops run o'er
    From only mine; and she—she weeps no more.

    This was her bed-room; it was here, you say,
    She laid in silence all that summer day,
    With roses (how she loved them!) at her head,
    Wreathed on the wall and strewn upon her bed.

    Now she lies yonder, and a sombre pall
    The dead leaves weave above her as they fall;
    The rains that beat, the autumn Winds that blow,
    Are making ready heavy shrouds of snow.

    Whatever covers her, she still sleeps well;
    But oh! these silent rooms! I can not tell
    Why their cold emptiness should move me so;
    I can not bear it longer—let us go.

  34. Song for a Little House

    by Christopher Morley

    I'm glad our house is a little house,
    Not too tall nor too wide:
    I'm glad the hovering butterflies
    Feel free to come inside.

    Our little house is a friendly house.
    It is not shy or vain;
    It gossips with the talking trees,
    And makes friends with the rain.

    And quick leaves cast a shimmer of green
    Against our whited walls,
    And in the phlox, the courteous bees
    Are paying duty calls.

    For the homes that with purest affection are blest,
    Thanksgiving! Thanksgiving!

    – Anonymous
    Giving Thanks

  35. When Arbutus Blooms Again

    by E. F. Hayward

    There's a little Cabin home with pine surrounded,
    In the North-woods, where one day I chanced to roam;
    Where all Nature wild and free with joys unbounded,
    Bade me welcome to that little Cabin home.
    Just a Cabin built of logs, out on a clearing,
    With "Arbutus" trailing o'er the grassy slope;
    There, a startled fawn at me was coyly peering,
    I saw her smile, and then began to hope.

    Tho I wander far, her face I always see;
    She was with me through the sunshine and the rain;
    If she'll only say she feels the same toward me,
    I'll be with her, "when Arbutus blooms again."

    We will build a little Cabin in the wildwood,
    Where the giant pines cast shadows o'er the lawn;
    And our happiness shall be like that of childhood,
    Midst the pine trees, where I met my startled fawn.
    I will gladly leave the wanderlust behind me,—
    Just to bask within the sunshine of her smile,
    There would be a World of pleasure to remind me
    That my visit to the North-woods was worth while.

  36. Our Prairie Homes

    by Charles J. Barber

    How happy they who do reside
    Along Missouri’s flowing tide;
    Or on the gently rolling plains,
    By winding streams and shady lanes;
    Who westward came from childhood homes—
    From old familiar spires and domes,
    From hill and dale and greenwood wild,
    Where oft they sported when a child;
    From every tie that’s to them dear—
    From every state both far and near—
    From every nation on the earth
    Where has been told Nebraska’s worth,
    They came and left their native land
    And gave to friends the parting hand;
    With white sails bending to the breeze
    They bravely crossed the stormy seas,
    And quickly o’er the iron rail,
    And farther still by Indian trail,
    Until they gained this fertile shore
    And viewed its rolling prairies o’er,
    And by its rivers, lakes and streams
    Have realized their early dreams;
    And now have happy homes and friends
    In towns and cities, dales and glens;
    And round the fireside’s cheerful blaze
    Their children frolic in their plays.

  37. My Cabin Home

    by Florence Kellett

    I have a little cabin
    That is everything to me—
    Behind it, is a mountain
    Before it, is the sea.

    Around it is the wildness
    Of the Island of the West,
    It is the only home I know,
    The only place of rest.

    As I linger in the doorway
    To see the setting sun,
    My fireside it calls to me
    After the day is done.

    Oh, dear, dear is my cabin
    Beyond all earthly worth,
    I would not, could not, change it now
    For anything on earth.

    And I have traveled far and wide
    O'er many and many a sea
    But nothing now shall ever take
    My cabin home from me.

    God bless the hills of Ireland,
    God bless its heart so true,
    God give me strength and grace to live,
    For many a year with you!

  38. Oh Erin, My Home

    by Florence Kellett

    Oh Erin, my home,
    I am coming to thee,
    Across desert and mountain
    And river and sea.

    To the dear little cabin
    The place I was born
    Mid the wave of the rye
    And the gleam of the corn.

    Near the wild rugged mountain,
    Where the heather grows free,
    And the wild rose unfettered
    Creeps down to the sea.

    Oh land of the gray mist,
    Of sunshine and rain,
    In thy rapturous beauty
    I see thee again.

    Oh, the breath of the bog land,
    And the smell of the peat,
    And the flowers all gleaming
    Like stars at my feet.

    Soon, soon, I'll be with you,
    Then, never to part,
    I shall dream my last dream
    In the land of my heart.

    What a home for a wanderer
    When the storms are past,
    In the green isle of Erin
    There'll be rest at the last.

  39. The Little Plant on the Window Speaks

    by Annette Wynne

    If you had let me stay all winter long outside,
    Long, long ago, I should have died.
    And so I'll live for you and keep
    A little summer while the others sleep—
    A little summer on your window-sill—
    I'll be your growing garden spot until
    The rough winds go away,
    And great big gardens call you out to play.

  40. The Little Window

    by Annette Wynne

    The little window's open wide
    All day to let the sun inside,
    But when the dark comes, turn about,
    It lets its own warm shining out.

  41. First of May

    by Nicholas Lester

    The winter's breath of snow and sleet
    No longer on our faces beat,
    And loungers have resumed the street;
    To work the house-wife quick will go
    House cleaning, that the world may know
    She is to dirt a deadly foe.

    The house she'll rummage through through,
    The bed-rooms and the closets too;
    Mid-floor their contents she will pile,
    And greet her lord with winning smile
    While she demands a carpet new.

    Each table, bedstead, stand and chair.
    Of scrubbing gets an ample share,
    And soon the spouse becomes aware
    The carpets from the floors are ripped,
    And he must put them out to air;
    (Let him remonstrate if he dare,)
    And see that they are whipp'd.

    The bureaus, brackets, stands and cases,
    Must occupy some new-found places
    For the ensuing year;
    The parlor stove removed must be,
    The pipes from soot be shaken free;
    The pictures from the walls be taken;
    The blankets, rugs and bed-quilts shaken;
    And every nook with suds be drenched,
    The kitchen fire remaining quench'd,
    For dinner he in vain may look,
    And should he grumble at the cook,
    A flea gets in his ear.

  42. To Make a House

    by Annette Wynne

    They cut a piece of the world outside
    And put it inside doors,
    And covered up the sky with roofs
    And spread the ground with floors.

  43. Homes

    by Annette Wynne

    Wigwams, igloos, nests in trees,
    Holes for fishes, hives for bees,
    Cold or warm, and small or big,
    To make a home, build, sew, or dig!

  44. A Rainy Sunday

    by Ruby Archer

    I love a rainy Sunday,
    With all the world away;
    The cozy hearth intensified
    By gloom of outer day.

    In silken gown fantastic,
    I let my hair go free,
    And idle in and out of books,
    Or weave a melody.

    The rain beyond the window
    Chants on in monotone;
    I muse among my household gods,
    And laugh—to be alone.

    The family is drowsy,
    The very cat asleep;
    And naught comes nigh my revery,
    Growing in silence deep.

    My books are dear companions,
    My pictures well-loved friends,
    My brown divan with Orient grace
    A dreamy languor lends.

    Come often, rainy Sundays,
    Forbidding me to roam—
    Come often, shut the world without,
    And me within my home.

  45. The Home-Coming

    by Ruby Archer

    A porch, a hall, a stairway,
    Significant may be;
    I'm thinking what a Rubicon
    Your evening door, for me.

    On one side yearning, waiting,
    A thousand vague alarms,
    Tormenting worries women know;—
    The other side,—your arms!

  46. The Deserted Cabin

    by Ruby Archer

    Lone, it lingers on the mountain
    With no sign or sound of life;
    No sweet, happy, household cadence,
    Laugh of child or song of wife.
    How it stares adown the valley
    With those hard and hollow eyes,
    As if waiting, empty-hearted,
    Hopeless, for some sweet surprise.
    All the doors have broken hinges,
    Rails have fallen from the fence;
    High the dove-cote leans, abandoned,
    Lonely birds have wandered hence.
    Mosses creep through every crevice,
    Sunshine bars the vacant floor,
    And a yellow ox-eyed daisy
    Peeps in wonder through the door.
    Yonder windmill turning, turning,
    In the old accustomed way,
    Feels a sympathy in moving
    With the winds that sigh alway:
    "We have lost the waving tresses
    Of a little golden head.
    We can find no touch responsive.—
    All but memory is dead."

  47. The Smoke of Cottage Chimneys

    by Arthur Goodenough

    The smoke of cottage chimneys,
    To fill the sky's blue cap,
    Like sacrificial vapors,
    Through all the earth go up;
    A goodly sight and pleasant,
    For every eye to see,
    So potently suggestive,
    Of thrift and harmony.

    The smoke of cottage chimneys,
    For me has wondrous charm,
    And brings me glowing visions,
    Of hearth fires snug and warm;
    Where happy children gather
    About the cheerful glow,
    And vainly try to number
    The sparks that upward go.

    The smoke of cottage chimneys,
    As I see it upward roll,
    Brings a sense of reassurance,
    And of gladness to my soul;
    For I know whatever crumbles,
    Under fate's remorseless stroke,
    There is safety for the Nation
    While the cottage chimneys smoke.

    States may flourish, states may perish,
    Empires totter to their fall,
    But the smoke of cottage chimneys,
    Will endure beyond it all.
    And the smoke of cottage chimneys
    Is a grander thing to me,
    Than the hosts of War assembled,
    Or the battle fleets at sea.

  48. Home is Where There's One to Love Us

    by Charles Swain

    Home's not merely four square walls,
    Though with pictures hung and gilded;
    Home is where Affection calls,—
    Filled with shrines the Heart hath builded!
    Home!—go watch the faithful dove,
    Sailing 'neath the heaven above us;
    Home is where there's one to love!
    Home is where there's one to love us!

    Home's not merely roof and room,—
    It needs something to endear it;
    Home is where the heart can bloom,—
    Where there's some kind lip to cheer it!
    What is home with none to meet,—
    None to welcome, none to greet us?
    Home is sweet,—and only sweet,—
    Where there's one we love to meet us!

  49. Good Old Days

    by Floyd D. Raze

     Full Text

    O, give me back the good old days
    When all the world was mine;
    My palace home, the rude log hut,
    Half hidden 'neath the pine.
    O let me scent the woodbine sweet
    That clustered 'round the eaves,
    And, dropping, hid the moss-grown logs
    Beneath its thousand leaves.

    How gladly would I turn my back
    Upon the setting sun,
    To view those well-remembered joys
    Of all the years agone.
    I fain would trace my journey back
    To greet the rising morn,
    E'en from the rude, old cottage,
    Now empty and forlorn.

    What are the joys of hoarded wealth?
    Vain, transitory, vain—
    O give me back the golden age
    Of boyhood's time again!
    The wondrous forest and the fields
    Where I was wont to be,
    And let the summer flowers bud
    And bloom again for me.

    The dear ones long departed,
    O bring them back once more,
    And let me hear my mother's song
    Sound from the cottage door.
    And let my sister come again
    To play beneath the pine—
    O give me back the good old days
    When all the world was mine!

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