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My house, my house, though thou art small, thou art to me the
Escuriall.
My house, my house, though thou art small, thou art to me the
Escuriall.
What if in Scotland's wilds we viel'd our head,
Where tempests whistle round the sordid bed;
Where read more
What if in Scotland's wilds we viel'd our head,
Where tempests whistle round the sordid bed;
Where the rug's two-fold use we might display,
By night a blanket, and a plaid by day.
Where thou art, that is home.
Where thou art, that is home.
The house is a castle which the King cannot enter.
The house is a castle which the King cannot enter.
He is the happiest, be he king or peasant, who finds peace in his home
He is the happiest, be he king or peasant, who finds peace in his home
The stately Homes of England,
How beautiful they stand!
Amidst their tall ancestral trees,
read more
The stately Homes of England,
How beautiful they stand!
Amidst their tall ancestral trees,
O'er all the pleasant land.
Construed as turf, home just seems a provisional claim, a designation you make upon a place, not one it makes read more
Construed as turf, home just seems a provisional claim, a designation you make upon a place, not one it makes on you. A certain set of buildings, a glimpsed, smudged window-view across a schoolyard, a musty aroma sniffed behind a garage when you were a child, all of which come crowding in upon your latter-day senses -- those are pungent things and vivid, even consoling. But to me they are also inert and nostalgic and unlikely to connect you to the real, to that essence art can sometimes achieve, which is permanence.
There's nobody at home
But Jumping Joan,
And father and mother and I.
There's nobody at home
But Jumping Joan,
And father and mother and I.
