23 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 love and peace. The saying "home sweet home" is one that has been used by writers and poets to describe the feeling of home. We hope these poems give you thoughts about what a home is.

Short Poems   /   Poems About Life    /   Poems About Home - related: Home Quotes


  1. 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.



  2. 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.



  3. Home Sweet Home
    Poet: Arthur Franklin Fuller


    Mother so dear —
    Dad I revere —
    Both in yon church-yard are sleeping;
    Old homestead gone,
    Kinsfolk all drawn,
    Far from old scenes memory's keeping;
    But while some may please,
    The world to roam,
    We'll choose the joys of "Home, sweet home. "



  4. Where The Heart Is Blest
    Poet: Ellwood Haines Stokes


    Ah! home, sweet home, oh! where
    Amid the wide world's glare.
    And pomp, and fashion, shall the spirit rest?
    Not in the dance or song,
    Where mirth her strains prolong,
    But home, sweet home, is where the heart is blest.

    O yes! 'tis ever so.
    Home must the fond heart go,
    When weary with the earth, its pride, and sin;
    But what makes home — the walls
    Where memory recalls
    Fond forms, and faces here no longer seen?

    Home halls, familiar bowers.
    Soft music and sweet flowers.
    Are solemn mockeries, if there be not there.
    Affection's holier choice.
    The dear, familiar voice.
    That greeted us with welcomes everywhere.



  5. The Sweetest Word On Earth Is Home
    Poet: John Imrie


    The sweetest word on earth is home,
    To loving hearts most dear;
    Where'er our footsteps seek to roam,
    Home thoughts are ever near.
    The mem'ries sweet of life's spring-day
    Keep fresh and green forever,
    Like fragrant flowers they scent the way
    Adown life's winding river.

    The dearest spot beneath the skies
    Is that we call "our home!"
    'Tis there we look with longing eyes,
    Though o'er the earth we roam!

    Our homes may be where mountains rise
    Like dark-green clouds to Heaven;
    Or where the valley-lily lies
    Our humble lot be given;
    Or on an island of the sea
    Oft by the tempest prest:
    No matter where our homes may be,
    To each that home is blest.

    The strongest love within man's breast
    Is love of life and home;
    Like fledglings hovering round their nest
    Our thoughts encircle home;
    Our years may reach three-score-and-ten,
    And full of changes be,
    Yet scenes of home will haunt us then
    When life was pure and free.

    Where love hath cast her golden spell
    And kindest deeds are done,
    Where loving hearts unite to dwell,
    'Tis heaven on earth begun;
    Then cherish home with jealous care
    And let not strife prevail;
    Thus for our "heavenly home" prepare,
    Secure within the vail.



  6. 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.



  7. 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.



  8. 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."



  9. 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!



  10. 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
    To 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



  11. 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.



  12. At Home
    Poet: Bernard Barton


    Where burns the fireside brightest,
    Cheering the social breast?
    Where beats the fond heart lightest,
    Its humblest hopes possessed?
    Where is the hour of sadness,
    With meek-eyed patience borne,
    Worth more than those of gladness,
    Which mirth's gay cheeks adorn?
    Pleasure is marked by fleetness,
    To those who ever roam;
    While grief itself has sweetness
    At home sweet home.



  13. 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.



  14. 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.



  15. 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.



  16. 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.



  17. 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.



  18. Home, Sweet Home
    Poet: John Howard Paine


    Mid pleasure and palaces though we may roam,
    Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home;
    A charm from the sky seems to hallow us there.
    Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere.
    Home, home, sweet, sweet home!
    There's no place like home, oh, there's no place like home!

    An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain;
    Oh, give me my lowly thatched cottage again!
    The birds singing gayly, that came at my call-
    Give me them — and the peace of mind, dearer than all!
    Home, home, sweet, sweet home!
    There's no place like home, oh, there's no place like home!

    I gaze on the moon as I tread the drear wild,
    And feel that my mother now thinks of her child,
    As she looks on that moon from our own cottage door
    Thro' the woodbine, whose fragrance shall cheer me no more.
    Home, home, sweet, sweet home!
    There's no place like home, oh, there's no place like home!

    How sweet 'tis to sit 'neath a fond father's smile.
    And the caress of a mother to soothe and beguile!
    Let others delight mid new pleasure to roam,
    But give me, oh, give me, the pleasures of home.
    Home, home, sweet, sweet home!
    There's no place like home, oh, there's no place like home!

    To thee I'll return, overburdened with care;
    The heart's dearest solace will smile on me there;
    No more from that cottage again will I roam;
    Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home.
    Home, home, sweet, sweet home!
    There's no place like home, oh, there's no place like home!



  19. 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.



  20. 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.



  21. 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.



  22. 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.



  23. 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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