Home, by Edgar A. Guest: A Classic Poem About Home and Family

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 'preciate
the things ye lef' behind,
An' hunger fer 'em somehow,
with 'em allus on yer mind.
It don't make any differunce
how rich ye get t' be,
How much yer chairs an' tables cost,
how great yer luxury;
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 thumb-marks on the door.

Ye've got t' weep t' make it home,
ye've got t' sit an' sigh
An' 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, an' 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.