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.

Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.

Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.

Home is the girl's prison and the woman's workhouse.

Home is the girl's prison and the woman's workhouse.

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!

Go big or go home. Because it's true. What do you have to lose?

Go big or go home. Because it's true. What do you have to lose?

To make a happy fireside clime
To weans and wife,
That's the true pathos and sublime
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To make a happy fireside clime
To weans and wife,
That's the true pathos and sublime
Of human life.

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

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

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

His native home deep imag'd in his soul.

His native home deep imag'd in his soul.