by Edgar A Guest
Eight rooms and bath, a cellar, too, a little patch of mother earth, Above it just a stretch of blue, it makes no difference what it's worth, t's home to me, and more and more I grow to love it every day, And when at night I pass the door, it's there I always want to stay. The furniture, perhaps, is not so fine as other folks possess, But it's a mighty cosy spot, and shelters in our happiness; The pictures on the walls aren't much, our tapestries aren't extra fine, But everything I see or touch holds joy for me because it's mine. Within these unpretentious walls are love and laughter finely blent; Rich men may have their marble halls, they cannot shut out discontent, And were this house a mansion grand I could not any happier be, For here I have at my command all that the world can give to me.
Saturday, October 19, 2013
Our Little Home
It is a silent sort of morning, sitting next to the wood stove in my rocker, watching the birds outside my windo...