The Joy of Home


Who loves the rain
And loves his home,
And looks on life with quiet eyes,
Him will I follow through the storm;
And at his hearth-fire keep me warm;
Nor hell nor heaven shall that soul surprise,
Who loves his home,
And looks on life with quiet eyes.


I’m posting these poems on the joy of home in honor of David’s 36th birthday because he loves his home, loves the rain and loves his folks at home. He does even have quiet eyes, the eyes that have learned much perseverance and understanding through the many ups and downs of life; the eyes that are like calm sea after the many tempests. To me, he always seems older and wiser than his age.

David enjoys his creature comforts, his privacy and his routine. He is the only person I know who is not afraid of being alone or feeling lonely because he enjoys himself and his solitude. I admire him for that! On the other hand, being humorous and soulful, he is also good company.

I have known him for 16 years this year. Our life together has been harder than we had imagined on our first date on the beach in Thailand. We have moved together 16 times in 3 different countries. There have been many ups and downs as well as tempests as we are both restless personalities.

We have struggled a lot against ourselves, each other and the world to carve out a way of living agreeable to both of us, 2 stubborn people with 2 different cultural orientations. Life has not been like a breezy walk on the beach; however, I believe we have been happier and luckier than many.

When we first got acquainted David told me that he didn’t believe in marriage due to the very high record of broken marriages in the U.S. However, he turned out to be the very man to have a family with: David is a doting father. He plays with the boys inside, takes them to play outside, reads to them, cuddles with them and tucks them in at night. Jacob and James are very lucky indeed.

These quotes and poems were greatly savored and selected from Home Sweet Home, a book by the Ideals publications, one of the coziest publications ever. This book is the perfect treat in this cold temp and blustering weather.


“To make a happy fireside clime
To weans and wife,
That is the true pathos and sublime
Of human life.”


Prayer for a New House

Let this house shelter joy
And dreams come true.
May someone love these rooms
And keep them bright.
Let laughter and contentment
Dwell here too
And children kneel to say
Small prayers at night.
Perhaps there’ll be
A teakettle that sings
And scarlet blossoms
On these windowsills;
A home is made
Of just such little things.
Let someone love
This view of distant hills.
Let firelight flickers
On piano keys.
Let books and games
And music have their part
And many, many shining
Christmas trees
To warm the very cockles
Of the heart.
Let such things weave
A spell that will endear
This house to those
So blessed as to live here.


When Mother Reads Aloud


When Mother reads aloud, the past
Seems real as every day;
I hear the tramp of armies vast;
I see the spears and lances cast;
I join the thrilling fray;
Brave knights and ladies fair and proud
I meet when Mother reads aloud.

When Mother reads aloud, far lands
Seem very near and true;
I cross the desert’s gleaming sands,
Or hunt the jungle’s prowling bands,
Or sail the ocean blue;
Far heights, whose peaks the cold mists shroud,
I scale, when Mother reads aloud.

When Mother reads aloud, I long
For noble deeds to do–
To help the right, redress the wrong;
It seems so easy to be strong,
So simple to be true.
Oh, thick and fast the visions crowd
When Mother reads aloud.


A Loving Home

A loving home is a lighthouse
With children safe and warm,
Refuge from the cold outside,
A port in time of storm,

A harbor for the family,
A haven in the night,
A beacon that burns brightly
To shed abroad its light.

When time has passed, the children leave
For shelters of their own.
May each be guided by the light
Of love in every home.


The Perfect Dinner Table

A tablecloth that’s lightly soiled
Where greasy little hands have toiled;
The napkins kept in silver rings;
And only ordinary things
From which to eat; a simple fare
And just the wife and kiddies there;
And while I serve, the clatter glad
Of little girl and little lad
Who have so very much to say
About the happenings of the day.

Our manners may not be the best;
Perhaps our elbows often rest
Upon the table, and at times
That very worst of dinner crimes,
That very shameful act, and rude,
Of speaking ere you’ve downed your food,
Too frequently, I fear, is done,
So fast the little voices run.
Yet why should table manners stay
Those tongues that have too much to say?

At many a table I have been
Where wealth and luxury were seen,
And I have dined in halls of pride
Where all the guests were dignified;
But when it comes to pleasure rare,
The perfect dinner table’s where
No stranger’s face is ever known:
The dinner hour we spend alone,
When little girl and little lad
Run riots telling things to Dad.


The Children’s Hour

Between the dark and the daylight,
When the night is beginning to lower,
Comes a pause in the day’s occupations
That is known as the Children’s Hour.

I hear in the chamber above me
The patter of little feet,
The sound of a door that is opened,
And voices soft and sweet.

From my study I see in the lamplight,
Descending the broad hall stair,
Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,
And Edith with golden hair.

A whisper, and then a silence:
Yet I know by their merry eyes
They are plotting and planning together
To take me by surprise.

A ridden rush from the stairway,
A sudden raid from the hall!
By three doors left unguarded
They enter my castle wall!

They climb up into my turret,
O’er the arms and back of my chairs;
If I try to escape, they surround me;
They seem to be everywhere.

“Happy are the families where the government of parents is the reign of affection, and obedience of the children the submission of love.” – FRANCIS BACON


“It was the policy of the old gentleman to make his children feel that home was the happiest place in the world; and I value this delicious home-feeling as one of the choicest gifts a parent can bestow.”


Good Night

Little baby, lay your head
On your pretty cradle-bed;
Shut your eye-peeps, now the day
And the light are gone away;
All the clothes are tucked in tight;
Little baby dear, good night.

Yes, my darling, well I know
How the bitter wind doth blow;
And the winter’s snow and rain
Patter on the window pane:
But they cannot come in here,
To my little baby dear;

For the window shutteth fast,
Till the stormy night is past;
And the curtains warm are spread
Round about her cradle-bed:
So till morning shineth bright,
Little baby dear, good night.


“It takes a mother’s love
To make a house a home,
A place to be remembered,
No matter where we roam.”

“Home, the spot of earth supremely blest,
A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest.”



Where Home Is

We have cottage by the lake,
A cabin in the hills;
And now and then the car we take
And feel the gypsy thrills
Of tenting here and tenting there,
The joy of camping anywhere.

Of “home” one night the baby spoke;
And then, the babe to tease
(For dads must have their little joke),
I asked her, “If you please,
I’d like to have you tell me what
Is really home–you have a lot:

“You have Muskegon, by the shore,
And Estes, where you climb;
And there’s the tent, intended for
A home at any time;
And there’s the house we live in too–
Now, which is really ‘home’ to you?”

She looked at me with open eyes,
In infant innocence,
And said with something of surprise–
A father is so dense
In asking questions such as his–
“Why, home’s wherever Mama is!”

And always it will be the same;
Her heart the home will be.
She keeps the lamp of love aflame
For wanderers to see.
However far her children roam,
Wherever Mother is, is home.


By the fireside still the light is shining.
The children’s arms round the parents twining.
From love so sweet, oh, who would roam?
Be it ever so homely, home is home.



Around the World with Dad

I often sat upon his knee,
When I was just a lad,
For nightly trips of make-believe
Around the world with Dad.

We’d climb the Himalayas
To hunt the big-horn sheep
Or sail away to Africa
And jungles dark and deep.

We’d visit ancient castles
In Scotland’s verdant vales
Or sail on expeditions
To look for sharks or whales.

We’d land on Tepic islands
And live on fish and fruits
Or may be hunt for treasure
Where pirates hid their loot.

We’d often sail with Kipling
To watch the dolphins play,
Explore the old pagodas
When we had crossed the bay.

We both had such a lot of fun
Until my mother said,
“Come on, you weary traveler,
It’s time you were in bed.”

But if I’d ever told my mom
What frightful dreams I had,
She never would have let me
Go around the world with Dad.


A Place in the Heart

When the hornet hangs in the hollyhock,
And the brown bee drones i’s the rose,
And the west is a red-streaked four-o’clock,
And summer is near its close,
It’s – Oh, for the gate , and the locust lane;
And dusk, and dew, and home again!

“Each moment of the year has its own beauty…a picture which shall never be seen again.”