A Home

 

 

 

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 lef' 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;
I 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 thumb marks on the door.

 

Ye've got t' weep t' make it home, ye've got t' sit an' 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 an' 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 t' make it home.

 

by Edgar Guest
From the book "A Heap o' Livin'" ©1916

 

 

 

 

 

 

AS LONG AS YOU BELIEVE

 

 

 

 

 

 

They sit there every evening
In the shade of the summer breeze
As they smile at each other
Shelling the fresh picked peas

 

They often wave to everyone
That passes by, that day
Reflecting on the people and blessings
They have known along the way

 

If you ever had the chance
To drive by that country house at night
Where the front porch light was softly aglow
You might just see them sharing a waltz
In a melody being played... on the old time radio

 

And to gaze upon the flowers and trees
They tended together all those years
Standing so honorably in the middle
Was a big oak tree they held so dear

 

Some years down the road
The house stood empty and all alone
As a for sale sign stands in the yard
To a young family the house is shown

 

They smile at each other
Saying, Let’s buy it!
In there eyes the joy was told
There would be no need... for others to see
It would be here, their years would sweetly unfold

 

Now they sit on the front porch
In the shade of the evening breeze
Watching their children play in the yard
Beneath the big oak tree

 

They hear their children, saying
Momma Daddy, come look and see!
Carved so many years ago...
Were the words written so beautifully
Love can grow anywhere as long as you believe

 

By Brenda Conley © 2003

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Little Home

 

The little house is not too small
To shelter friends who come to call.
Though low the roof and small its space
It holds the Lord's abounding grace,
And every simple room may be
Endowed with happy memory.

 

The little house, severly plain,
A wealth of beauty may contain.
Within it those who dwell may find
High faith which makes for peace of mind,
And that sweet understanding which
Can make the poorest cottage rich.

 

The little house can hold all things
From which the soul's contentment springs.
'Tis not too small for love to grow,
For all the joys that mortals know,
For mirth and song and that delight
Which make the humblest dwelling bright.

 

Edgar A. Guest