Home Is Here
The following is a cute poem about where is home. Wilhelmina Stitch reminds us that home is not the material things we have, nor is it the structure. Home, instead, is where the people that we love live. Homes can be
in the shade of a large tree, or upon the sand swept-shores of a tropical island, or
in the grassy slopes of a mountain, or the small apartment nestled among others in a city. A home does not depend upon the type of materials used for
construction, the fancy, ornate internal designs, or the number of additional bedrooms and bathrooms. However, a home does depend on one
element more clearly than all others and that is a place filled with care, respect and love. Without the aforementioned attributes, nothing is of
relevance to the word "home".
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Home Is Here
by Wilhelmina Stitch
"Home is here," says the chair,
"Though I'm shabby, I don't care.
I have given hours of rest
To a weary, much-loved guest.
Do not ask, 'Home is where!'
"It is here," says the chair.
"Home is here," says the fire.
"I'm the symbol of desire;
I'm a magnet drawing folk
To sit cosily and joke.
Of me no one can tire.
I'm home's pivot," says the fire.
Say the books, "Home is here.
We dispel despair and fear.
We encourage man to live
By the comfort that we give.
We're the spirit of the home,"
Cried aloud each precious tome.
Says the heart, "You speak so well.
This is home, yea, I can tell.
Chairs and books, I turn you out...
Fire, I quench you with a doubt.
Yet my home, my home is here,
since my love is drawing near."
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Quotes from the poem, Home Is Here
"'Home is here,' says the chair, 'Though I'm shabby, I don't care. I have given hours of rest'
What can a chair say, if it could speak, about being part of a home? A chair can say that it offers a place to rest from a hard day at work, a place of
comfort for a mother holding a small child for comfort, a place to offer a guest an opportunity to be welcomed, or a place from which to behold the
shenanigans of a child and its' pet. Chairs come in all shapes and sizes. But, what matters most is that it is used, it provides welcoming, as it silently
declares that it is here to help form a small portion of familiarity and welcome.
"'Home is here," says the fire... Of me no one can tire. I'm home's pivot' says the fire."
Many, many of our beloved movies or television shows proudly display the heart-warming fireplace. It is a spot that offers heat, coziness as the fire
crackles and snaps. It is a symbol of family gatherings remaining unused until the clan gathers in harmony. It provides the necessary warmth on a cold
night; it provides comfort to those who circled its' hearth when the lights have failed.
"Say the books, 'Home is here. We dispel despair and fear.'"
To sit quietly with a good book has often been of personal delight. I have visited and experienced many a far off land from the comfort of my own
home within the pages of a book. Sometimes, its' well worn-pages tell me how often its' pages have enthralled many another. Books. The pages cry
out to be read, to be understood, to cast away fears, and to embolden. There is something special about a book Maybe it's the grasping, the holding,
the turning of pages that lead me further and further down whatever path they describe. Maybe, it's is simply a comforting practice so long ago adopted.
I've always had a library filled with books from all genres - books that line shelves or that take center place upon a side table beside my favorite
reading chair. Whatever it is, may I never grow complacent to accept that they play no active part in my life.
"Yet my home, my home is here, since my love is drawing near."
How often, alone, have you been surprised by a fantastic, beautiful vista sweeping before you as you round a curve in the highway only to realize that
you cannot express its' beauty to another? How many times have you sat alone in your home waiting for dear loved ones to arrive? A home seems so
devoid of meaning without the one or ones you love to share its' spaces, to beguile the days events whether good or bad. There is no sense of
sharing, of love conveyed except within the home filled with love of another.
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