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THE Home-word to me quite as sacred as any we coin in the mint, It carries no dress in its metal; the garment will carry no lint, The house is a home, where the windows will let in the light of God's day With a kiss on the cheek for the circle, 'neath the roof, though the structure is gray. The world seems to me a Great Eden, with all that is needed at hand-- A nook in life's joyous garden, with golden rays touching the land; A place in the eventide harbor, the haven the searchlight has shown Although it may seem quite secluded, is ever and always a home. The word is endeared to the masses, for life will they struggle to gain A sight of the old habitation, through years of exposure and pain. But the passer might think it derisive, if its grandeur to him is unknown, While he walks down the road toward the river which kisses the pebble and stone. The nights and the days of our journey are taxed with indelible toil; The linen we wear in this lifetime is a product, it seems, of the soil; The garment, the house for our comfort, may for much of our weakness atone Ere it falls, and we hope for another, in advance of the genial old home. We cherish the rubies of brightness, but adore the old home- stead; it seems The one is a passion for pleasure, a boatride, a river of dreams; The other the deep beaming ocean as pure as the steps to the Throne; The monument with the inscription, that hinges on Lore and the Home. |