18 Poems About Home
Let these poems about home remind you how special your home is. There are many thoughts on our home - home is where we can be ourselves, where we can relax, where we can find and peace, and we can be with those who love us. We hope these poems remind you how special your home is. about what a home is.Short Poems & Quotes / Poems About Life / Poems About Home
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The Old Home
Poet: Unknown
In vain we strive to keep the tears from falling, as we turn to face
The dear old home, that dwelling-place of ours for many happy years.
A spirit seems to whisper low in language quaint, sublime and queer,
"How can you leave without a tear the old home of the long ago?"
The old, old home where happy hours were often passed in childish play;
Where memories sweet did pass away beneath time's overwhelming powers.
We turn to go, yet linger nigh unwilling still to leave the place
Which time alone will soon efface beyond the sight of any eye.
Again we look, and through our tears the purest feelings of the heart
Awake to life, and quickly start adown the mystic flight of years.
Yes, we must go; our mind is set on something dearer yet to find.
The dear old home we leave behind with "one pure image of regret."
O, blessed place of rest, farewell! We leave thee with our hopes and fears
To sail adown the fleeting years o some fair isle where seraphs dwell.
Adieu, thou peaceful realm of light! Along the gulf of time we stray;
We'll think of thee when for away, we'll think of thee with glad delight.
Farewell! in leaving, all the years of happy childhood quick return;
Farewell! farewell! we yet may learn of something grander for our tears.
Old home, adieu, yet as we roam far from thy peaceful vale of rest
We cannot hope to be more blest than we were in our dear old home. -
The Living Beauties
Poet: Edgar A. Guest
I never knew, until they went,
How much their laughter really meant
I never knew how much the place
Depended on each little face;
How barren home could be and drear
Without its living beauties here.
I never knew that chairs and books
Could wear such sad and solemn looks!
That rooms and halls could be at night
So still and drained of all delight.
This home is now but brick and board
Where bits of furniture are stored.
I used to think I loved each shelf
And room for what it was itself.
And once I thought each picture fine
Because I proudly called it mine.
But now I know they mean no more
Than art works hanging in a store.
Until they went away to roam
I never knew what made it home.
But I have learned that all is base.
However wonderful the place
And decked with costly treasures, rare,
Unless the living joys are there. -
Arrival
Poet: Henry VanDyke
Across a thousand miles of sea, a hundred leagues of land,
Along a path I had not traced and could not understand,
I travelled fast and far for this,--to take thee by the hand.
A pilgrim knowing not the shrine where he would bend his knee,
A mariner without a dream of what his port would be,
So fared I with a seeking heart until I came to thee.
O cooler than a grove of palm in some heat-weary place,
O fairer than an isle of calm after the wild sea race,
The quiet room adorned with flowers where first I saw thy face!
Then furl the sail, let fall the oar, forget the paths of foam!
The fate that made me wander far at last has brought me home
To thee, dear haven of my heart, and I no more will roam. -
Folks
Poet: Edgar A. Guest
We was speakin' of folks, jes' common folks,
An' we come to this conclusion.
That wherever they be, on land or sea.
They warm to a home allusion;
That under the skin an' under the hide
There's a spark that starts a-glowin'
Whenever they look at a scene or book
That something of home is showin'.
They may differ in creeds an' politics,
They may argue an' even quarrel,
But their throats grip tight, if they catch sight
Of their favorite elm or laurel.
An' the winding lane that they used to tread
With never a care to fret 'em,
Or the pasture gate where they used to wait.
Right under the skin will get 'em.
Now folks, is folks on their different ways,
With their different griefs an' pleasures,
But the home they knew, when their years were few,
Is the dearest of all their treasures.
An' the richest man to the poorest waif
Right under the skin is brother
When they stand an' sigh, with a tear-dimmed eye.
At a thought of the dear old mother.
It makes no difference where it may be.
Nor the fortunes that years may alter,
Be they simple or wise, the old home ties
Make all of 'em often falter.
Time may robe 'em in sackcloth coarse
Or garb 'em in gorgeous splendor.
But whatever their lot, they keep one spot
Down deep that is sweet an' tender.
We was speakin' of folks, jes' common folks,
An' we come to this conclusion.
That one an' all, be they great or small.
Will warm to a home allusion;
That under the skin an' the beaten hide
They're kin in a real affection
For the joys they knew, when their years were few.
An' the home of their recollection. -
A Happy Home
Poet: James Henry Thomas
Tell me what makes a happy home,
Where consecrated love
Makes sacred every cabin, and
Sanctioned by God above?
Is it the costly things of life,
Or riches piled in heaps;
That make a home happy and bright,
And out of danger keep?
Are happy homes made by wrecked lives,
Or unmatched married ties,
Or by a wife who cannot show
Some kindness in her eyes?
Can any home be happy when
The woman pays the bills,
And lets her husband idly go;
Caring not for her ills?
Or can it be, the man works hard
To satisfy his wife,
While she makes home a wretched place
By her ungrateful life?
The man and wife should love the same;
If this cannot be done.
'Tis like a cart built for two wheels,
But tries to go on one.
Home is a place where man and wife,
In unity and love,
Are happy when the days are dark,
Then nuptial tie they prove.
Home is the place where children love
To go and be at rest;
They hover 'round their mother's knee,
For mother knows the best.
Home is the place where prayer is taught
To children in their youth;
They learn to be obedient,
And learn to tell the truth.
Home is the place where father goes
Before the clock strikes nine;
He meets his wife, whose face is bright,
And tells her she looks fine.
Home is the place where mother loves
To spend most of her time.
Her house is not a place in which
There're misery and crime.
I'm sorry for the man who has
No place to call his home;
But has to take what he can get.
Or in this wide world roam.
The days of preparation pass,
And yet he cannot see
That worldly pleasures steal his wit,
And give him misery.
O happy home, blessed home!
Made sacred by God's love;
I hope that I'll remember thee
When I am up above. -
Where Is Home?
Poet: Unknown
Home is where affection binds
Gentle hearts in union,
Where the voices all are kind,
Holding sweet communion.
Home is where the hearts can rest
Safe from darkening sorrow,
Where the friends we love the best
Brighten every sorrow.
Home is where the friends that love
To our hearts are given,
Where the blessings from above
Makes the home a heaven.
Yes, 'tis home where smiles of cheer
Wreath the brows that greet us,
And the one of all most dear
Ever comes to meet us. -
Make Yourself At Home
Poet: Lillian E. Curtis
As we journey far away,
And o'er the land do roam,
'Tis a pleasant sound to hear,
"Pray, make yourself at home."
But vain as it is useless,
For whether it be cot or throne,
On this wide, wide earth,
There is no place like home.
Our host and hostess may be kind,
And many a comfort loan,
But the words are vain as useless,
"Pray, make yourself at home."
Though we affect content,
The heart will cry and moan,
And vain as useless are the words,
"Do make yourself at home." - As we journey through life we quickly come to realize that there is no place like home. Find other thoughts in our collection of life journey poems.
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In Sight Of Home
Poet: Strickland Gillilan
All day I wander blithesomely adown each roadway turn;
I seek new pastures restlessly and ramble on and on.
But as the red sun westers down, I feel the primal yearn
To be in sight of home again before the light is gone.
The distant hilltop lures my feet, I hunger for its view;
What lies beyond the darkling wood I needs must run and see.
All day I bravely plunge ahead in search of vistas new,
But when the twilight comes, my home calls lovingly to me.
Twilight and home are comrade things - would they might always meet!
My heart breaks every evening when I cannot see my own.
The trip, the crowd, the stranger voice through all the day are sweet,
But dusk brings on the sorrow that I needs must bear alone.
When, after life's long journeyings, your sun slips gently down
The copper-burnished western sky and there's a hint of gloam,
May you not see the stranger hill or wood before you frown
May life's sweet evening shadows find your soul in sight of Home! -
Mariners
Poet: David Morton
Men who have loved the ships they took to sea.
Loved the tall masts, the prows that creamed with foam.
Have learned, deep in their hearts, how it might be
That there is yet a dearer thing than home.
The decks they walk, the rigging in the stars.
The clean boards counted in the watch they keep —
These, and the sunlight on the slippery spars.
Will haunt them ever, waking and asleep. -
Home Is Where The Heart Is
Poet: Unknown
'Tis home where'er the heart is,
Where'er its loved ones dwell,
In cities or in cottages,
Thronged haunts or mossy dell.
The heart's a rover ever,
And thus, on wave and wild,
The maiden with her lover walks,
The mother with her child.
'Tis bright where'er the heart is;
Its fairy spell can bring
Fresh fountains to the wilderness,
And to the desert spring.
Green isles are in the ocean
O'er which affection glides,
A haven on each sunny shore,
When love's the sun that guides.
'Tis free where'er the heart is;
Nor chains nor dungeons dim
May check the mind's aspiring thought,
The spirit's pealing hymn.
The heart gives life its beauty,
Its glory, and its powers;
'Tis sunlight to its rippling stream,
And soft dew to its flowers. -
Home
by Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.
And where we love is home.
Home that our feet may leave,
But not our hearts;
The chain may lengthen,
But it never parts. -
What House To Like
Poet: Unknown
Some love the glow of outward show,
Some love mere wealth and try to win it;
The house to me may lowly be,
If I but like the people in it.
What's all the gold that glitters cold,
When linked to hard or haughty feeling?
Whate'er we 're told, the noble gold
Is truth of heart and manly dealing.
Then let them seek, whose minds are weak,
Mere fashion's smile and try to win it;
The house to me may lowly be,
If I but like the people in it.
A lowly roof may give us proof
That lowly flowers are often fairest;
And trees whose bark is hard and dark
May yield us fruit and bloom the rarest.
There's worth as sure 'neath garments poor
As e'er adorned a loftier station;
And minds as just as those, we trust,
Whose claim is but of wealth's creation.
Then let them seek, whose minds are weak,
Mere fashion's smile, and try to win it;
The house to me may lowly be,
If I but like the people in it. -
Sunlight In Your Home
by Stopford A. Brooke
If you would have sunlight in your home,
See that you have work in it:
That you work yourself and set others to work.
Nothing makes moroseness and heavy-heartedness
In a house so fast as idleness.
The very children gloom and sulk if they are
Left with nothing to do.
Every day there is the light of something conquered
in the eyes of those who work.
In such a house, if there be also the good temper of love,
sunshine never ceases.
Sunlight comes with work. -
The Old, Old Home
Poet: Unknown
When I long for sainted memories,
Like angel troops they come,
If I fold my arms to ponder
On the old, old home.
The heart has many passages
Through which the feelings roam,
But its middle aisle is sacred
To the thoughts of old, old home.
Where infancy was sheltered
Like rosebuds from the blast,
Where girlhood's brief elysium
In joyousness was passed;
To that sweet spot forever,
As to some hallowed dome,
Life's pilgrim bends her vision -
'Tis her old, old home.
A father sat, how proudly,
By the old hearthstone's rays,
And told his children stories
Of his early manhood's days;
And one soft eye was beaming,
From child to child 'twould roam;
Thus a mother counts her treasures
In the old, old home.
The birthday gifts and festivals,
The blended vesper hymn,
(Some dear one who was swelling it,
Is with the seraphim.)
The fond "good nights" at bedtime,
How quietly sleep would come,
And fold us all together
In the old, old home.
Like a wreath of scented flowers
Close intertwined each heart;
Though time and change in concert
Have blown the wreath apart;
But dear and sainted memories
Like angels ever come,
If I fold my eyes and ponder
On the old, old home. -
A Home In The Heart
Poet: Eliza Cook
Oh! ask not a home in the mansions of pride,
Where marble shines out in the pillars and walls;
Though the roof be of gold, it is brilliantly cold,
And joy may not be found in its torchlighted halls.
But seek for a bosom all honest and true,
Where love, once awakened, will never depart;
Turn, turn to that breast like the dove to its nest,
And you'll find there's no home like a home in the heart.
Oh! link but one spirit that's warmly sincere,
That will heighten your pleasure and solace your care;
Find a soul you may trust as the kind and the just,
And be sure the wide world holds no treasure so rare.
Then the frowns of Misfortune may shadow our lot,
The cheek-searing- tear-drops of Sorrow may start;
But a star never dim sheds a halo for him
Who can turn for repose to a home in the heart. -
Don't Forget The Old Folks
Poet: Will T. Hale
Nay, don't forget the old folks, boys -they've not forgotten you;
Though years have passed since you were home, the old hearts still are true,
And not an evening passes by they haven't the desire
To see your faces once again and hear your footsteps nigher.
You're young and buoyant, and for you
Hope beckons with her hands
And life spreads out a waveless sea that laps but tropic strands;
The world is all before your face, but let your memories turn
To where fond hearts still cherish you and loving bosoms yearn.
No matter what your duties are nor what your place in life,
There's never been a time they'd not assume your load of strife;
And shrunken shoulders, trembling hands, and forms racked by disease
Would bravely dare the grave to bring to you the pearl of peace.
So don't forget the old folks, boys — they've not forgotten you;
Though years have passed since you "were home the old hearts still are true;
And write them now and then to bring the light into their eyes,
And make the world glow once again and bluer gleam the skies. -
The Home
Poet: Rosamond Livingstone McNaught
No matter what of change the years may bring,
Let this remain, the family's gathering-place,
Where voices join to talk and laugh and sing.
And happy face looks into happy face;
Where tender memories may store the mind,
To bloom again in future dreaming hours,
As when, between book-pages, one may find
Forgotten sprays of treasured azure flowers.
Home for the weary! More than sheltering walls
And place for body's food and rest and ease;
A benedicite of spirit falls
With intermingling human pleasantries:
Let this remain, among all changing things,
Home, where the weary spirit folds its wings. -
A Dream Of Home
Poet: Alex Tuer
When the work is over and the care laid by,
For the day that is almost done,
When the crimson and gold in the western sky
Bid farewell to the setting sun,
I stand on the shore and watch the ships
Far out on the sparkling foam,
And I wonder how many a tired heart
Each ship is carrying home.
And I think of the friends who are waiting there
On the farther shore of the sea.
With hearts that are big with the love they bear
And of meetings that soon will be.
And in fancy I join in a happy throng
Where old friends gather round,
And I wonder if ever I'll stand on the deck
On a ship that's homeward bound.
For the lives of men are so inclined
That no matter how far we roam,
No distance can sever the ties that bind
Our hearts to love of home,
And ever the strains of that grand old song
Will quicken our dreams anew
And I wonder will ever the glad day come
When my dream of home will come true.
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Poems About Family
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As we grow older we realize our childhood days we some of the happiest. Let these poems about happiness be a reminder of the things that create happiness.
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No matter where we roam, we usually come back home.
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You can be wealthy but if you do not have a loving family or loving friends to come home to your money is truly worthless. Being happy is coming home to the people who are there waiting for you. It is not the cost of your home, nor is it the size of your home. There are many people with large homes and lots of money who are the most unhappy! Let these quotes about being happy remind you that money will never buy happiness.
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Families make a house a home. The love, support, and encouragement from our family make us feel safe and secure at home.
Related Poems & Quotes:
A Happy Home
A Contented Home
The Home Builders
Inscriptions For A Friend's House
Christian Poems
Son Poems
Poems about Daughter
Famous Poets Featured in These Poems About Home:
Edgar A. Guest
Henry VanDyke
James Henry Thomas
Lillian E. Curtis
Strickland Gillilan
We hope these poems about home has given you thoughts to reflect upon on what makes a home. It is not the size or the cost but the love that resides within it!
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