There's nothing half so pleasant as coming home again.

There's nothing half so pleasant as coming home again.

Old homes! old hearts! Upon my soul forever
Their peace and gladness lie like tears and laughter.

Old homes! old hearts! Upon my soul forever
Their peace and gladness lie like tears and laughter.

One may have a blazing hearth in one's soul and yet no one ever come to sit by it. Passersby read more

One may have a blazing hearth in one's soul and yet no one ever come to sit by it. Passersby see only a wisp of smoke from the chimney and continue on the way.

The house of every one is to him as his castle and fortress, as
well for his defence against read more

The house of every one is to him as his castle and fortress, as
well for his defence against injury and violence, as for his
repose.

I've read in many a novel, that unless they've souls that
grovel--
Folks prefer in fact a hovel read more

I've read in many a novel, that unless they've souls that
grovel--
Folks prefer in fact a hovel to your dreary marble halls.

The whitewash'd wall, the nicely sanded floor,
The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door;
The chest read more

The whitewash'd wall, the nicely sanded floor,
The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door;
The chest contriv'd a double debt to pay,
A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day.

At length his lonely cot appears in view,
Beneath the shelter of an aged tree;
Th' expectant read more

At length his lonely cot appears in view,
Beneath the shelter of an aged tree;
Th' expectant wee-things, toddling, stacher thro'
To meet their Dad, wi' flichterin noise an' glee.

The ache for home lives in all of us, the safe place where we can go as we are and read more

The ache for home lives in all of us, the safe place where we can go as we are and not be questioned.

When the hornet hangs in the holly hock,
And the brown bee drones i' the rose,
And read more

When the hornet hangs in the holly hock,
And the brown bee drones i' the rose,
And the west is a red-streaked four-o'clock,
And summer is near its close--
It's--Oh, for the gate, and the locust lane;
And dusk, and dew, and home again!