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 'predate the things ye lef

behind,

An' hunger fer 'em somehow, with 'em alius

on yer mind. It don't make any differunce how rich ye get

t' be,

How much yer chairs an' tables cost, how great yerluxury;

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 an' sigh Air 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, au'

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.

-Edgar Guest