71 Comforting Poems About Home

Photo of author
Updated on

Here are my favorite poems about home categorized:

  • Poems about home and family
  • Poems about home and belonging
  • Poems about homeland
  • Poems about homecoming
  • Poems about homesickness

So if you want the best poems about homes, then you’re in the right place.

Let’s get started!

71 Best Poems About Home (Handpicked)
Contents: show

Comforting Poems About Home

Discover the profound essence of “home” through an exquisite selection of handpicked poems, meticulously categorized for your exploration.

From verses that celebrate the warmth and love of home and family, to poignant compositions that capture the longing and bittersweet emotions of homesickness, immerse yourself in the diverse tapestry of emotions that revolve around the concept of “home.”

Find solace and inspiration within this curated collection of the very best poems, where the essence of home is beautifully woven into poetic masterpieces, all in one convenient destination.

Let’s get into it!

My #1 Favorite Poem About Home

Beautiful girl in a burgundy coat and red dress on the backgroun

“Home, Sweet Home” by John Howard Payne

Mid pleasures 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! there ’s no place like Home!
An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain:
O, 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! there ’s no place like Home!
How sweet ’t is to sit ’neath a fond father’s smile,
And the cares of a mother to soothe and beguile!
Let others delight mid new pleasures to roam,
But give me, oh, give me, the pleasures of home!
Home! Home! sweet, sweet Home!
There ’s no place like Home! 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! there ’s no place like Home!

Poems About Home and Family

woman portrait in the fantasy castle

“Canada Home.” by Juliana Horatia Ewing

Some Homes are where flowers for ever blow,
The sun shining hotly the whole year round;
But our Home glistens with six months of snow,
Where frost without wind heightens every sound.
And Home is Home wherever it is,
When we’re all together and nothing amiss.

Yet Willy is old enough to recall
A Home forgotten by Eily and me;
He says that we left it five years since last Fall,
And came sailing, sailing, right over the sea.
But Home is Home wherever it is,
When we’re all together and nothing amiss.

Our other Home was for ever green,
A green, green isle in a blue, blue sea,
With sweet flowers such as we never have seen;
And Willy tells all this to Eily and me.
But Home is Home wherever it is,
When we’re all together and nothing amiss.

He says, “What fine fun when we all go back!”
But Canada Home is very good fun
When Pat’s little sled flies along the smooth track,
Or spills in the snowdrift that shines in the sun.
For Home is Home wherever it is,
When we’re all together and nothing amiss.

Some day I should dearly love, it is true,
To sail to the old Home over the sea;
But only if Father and Mother went too,
With Willy and Patrick and Eily and me.
For Home is Home wherever it is,
When we’re all together and nothing amiss.

“A Song Of Harvest Home.” by Jean Blewett

Praise God for blessings great and small,
For garden bloom and orchard store,
The crimson vine upon the wall,
The green and gold of maples tall,
For harvest-field and threshing-floor!

Praise God for children’s laughter shrill,
For clinging hands and tender eyes,
For looks that lift and words that thrill,
For friends that love through good and ill,
For home, and all home’s tender ties!

Praise God for losses and for gain,
For tears to shed, and songs to sing,
For gleams of gold and mists of rain,
For the year’s full joy, the year’s deep pain,
The grieving and the comforting!

“Mother” by Madison Julius Cawein

Oh, I am going home again,
Back to the old house in the lane,
And mother! who still sits and sews,
With cheeks, each one, a winter rose,
A-watching for her boy, you know,
Who left so many years ago,
To face the world, its stress and strain
Oh, I am going home again.

Yes, I am going home once more,
And mother ‘ll meet me at the door
With smiles that rainbow tears of joy,
And arms that reach out for her boy,
And draw him to her happy breast,
On which awhile his head he ‘ll rest,
And care no more, if rich or poor,
At home with her, at home once more.

Yes, I am going home to her,
Whose welcome evermore is sure:
I have been thinking, night and day,
How tired I am of being away!
How homesick for her gentle face,
And welcome of the oldtime place,
And memories of the days that were
Oh, I am going home to her.

Oh, just to see her face again
A-smiling at the windowpane!
To see her standing at the door
And offering her arms once more,
As oft she did when, just a child,
She took me to her heart and smiled,
And hushed my cry and cured my pain
I’m going home to her again.

Woman in green medieval dress

“O I Won’t Lead A Homely Life” by Thomas Hardy

“O I won’t lead a homely life
As father’s Jack and mother’s Jill,
But I will be a fiddler’s wife,
With music mine at will!
Just a little tune,
Another one soon,
As I merrily fling my fill!”

And she became a fiddler’s Dear,
And merry all day she strove to be;
And he played and played afar and near,
But never at home played he
Any little tune
Or late or soon;
And sunk and sad was she!

“Writin’ Back To The Home-Folks” by James Whitcomb Riley

My dear old friends – It jes beats all,
The way you write a letter
So’s ever’ last line beats the first,
And ever’ next-un’s better! –
W’y, ever’ fool-thing you putt down
You make so interestin’,
A feller, readin’ of ’em all,
Can’t tell which is the best-un.

It’s all so comfortin’ and good,
‘Pears-like I almost hear ye
And git more sociabler, you know,
And hitch my cheer up near ye
And jes smile on ye like the sun
Acrosst the whole per-rairies
In Aprile when the thaw’s begun
And country couples marries.

It’s all so good-old-fashioned like
To talk jes like we’re thinkin’,
Without no hidin’ back o’ fans
And giggle-un and winkin’,
Ner sizin’ how each-other’s dressed –
Like some is allus doin’, –
“Is Marthy Ellen’s basque ben turned
Er shore-enough a new-un!” –

Er “ef Steve’s city-friend haint jes
‘A leetle kindo’-sorto'” –
Er “wears them-air blame eye-glasses
Jes ’cause he hadn’t ort to?”
And so straight on, dad-libitum,
Tel all of us feels, someway,
Jes like our “comp’ny” wuz the best
When we git up to come ‘way!

That’s why I like old friends like you, –
Jes ’cause you’re so abidin’. –
Ef I was built to live “fer keeps,”
My principul residin’
Would be amongst the folks ‘at kep’
Me allus thinkin’ of ’em,
And sorto’ eechin’ all the time
To tell ’em how I love ’em. –

Sich folks, you know, I jes love so
I wouldn’t live without ’em,
Er couldn’t even drap asleep
But what I dreamp’ about ’em, –
And ef we minded God, I guess
We’d all love one-another
Jes like one fam’bly, – me and Pap
And Madaline and Mother.

“Oh stay at home, my lad, and plough” by Alfred Edward Housman

Oh stay at home, my lad, and plough
The land and not the sea,
And leave the soldiers at their drill,
And all about the idle hill
Shepherd your sheep with me.

Oh stay with company and mirth
And daylight and the air;
Too full already is the grave
Of fellows that were good and brave
And died because they were.

Woman in long white dress posing in front of a Castle Keep

“To My Absent Daughter.” by George Pope Morris

Georgie, come home!–Life’s tendrils cling about thee,
Where’er thou art, by wayward fancy led.
We miss thee, love!–Home is not home without thee–
The light and glory of the house have fled:
The autumn shiver of the linden-tree
Is like the pang that thrills my frame for thee!

Georgie, come home!–To parents, brother, sister
Thy place is vacant in this lonely hall,
Where shines the river through the “Jeannie Vista,”
While twilight shadows lengthen on the wall:
Our spirits falter at the close of day,
And weary night moves tardily away.

Georgie, come home!–The winds and waves are singing
The mournful music of their parting song,
To soul and sense the sad forboding bringing,
Some ill detains thee in the town so long:
Oh, that the morn may dissipate the fear,
And bring good tidings of my daughter dear!

Georgie, come home!–The forest leaves are falling,
And dreary visions in thy absence come;
The fountain on the hill in vain is calling
Thee, my beloved one, to thy woodland home.
And I imagine every passing breeze
Whispers thy name among the moaning trees!

Georgie, come home!–Thy gentle look can banish
The gathering gloom round this once cheerful hearth;
In thy sweet presence all our care will vanish,
And sorrow soften into mellow mirth.
Return, my darling, never more to roam:
Heart of the Highlands!–Georgie, dear, come home!

“Home” by Carl Sandburg

Here is a thing my heart wishes the world had more of:
I heard it in the air of one night when I listened
To a mother singing softly to a child restless and angry
in the darkness.

Poems About Home and Belonging

A beautiful woman, a princess in a red dress, sits by in a blooming garden. An ancient castle in the background. Medieval fantasy, European palace

“A Garden-Seat At Home” by William Lisle Bowles

Oh, no; I would not leave thee, my sweet home,
Decked with the mantling woodbine and the rose,
And slender woods that the still scene inclose,
For yon magnificent and ample dome
That glitters in my sight! yet I can praise
Thee, Arundel, who, shunning the thronged ways
Of glittering vice, silently dost dispense
The blessings of retired munificence.
Me, a sequestered cottage, on the verge
Of thy outstretched domain, delights; and here
I wind my walks, and sometimes drop a tear
O’er Harriet’s urn, scarce wishing to emerge
Into the troubled ocean of that life,
Where all is turbulence, and toil, and strife.
Calm roll the seasons o’er my shaded niche;
I dip the brush, or touch the tuneful string,
Or hear at eve the unscared blackbirds sing;
Enough if, from their loftier sphere, the rich
Deign my abode to visit, and the poor
Depart not, cold and hungry, from my door.

“By Home” by William Croswell

I knew my father’s chimney top,
Though nearer to my heart than eye,
And watch’d the blue smoke reeking up
Between me and the winter sky.
Wayworn I traced the homeward track,
My wayward youth had left withjoy;
Unchanged in soul I wander’d back,
A man, in years—in heart, a boy.
I thought upon its cheerful hearth,
And cheerful hearts’ untainted glee,
And felt of all I ’d seen on earth,
This was the dearest spot to me.

“Right Here At Home.” by James Whitcomb Riley

Right here at home, boys, in old Hoosierdom,
Where strangers allus joke us when they come,
And brag o’ their old States and interprize –
Yit settle here; and ‘fore they realize,
They’re “hoosier” as the rest of us, and live
Right here at home, boys, with their past fergive!

Right here at home, boys, is the place, I guess,
Fer me and you and plain old happiness:
We hear the World’s lots grander – likely so, –
We’ll take the World’s word fer it and not go. –
We know its ways aint our ways – so we’ll stay
Right here at home, boys, where we know the way.

Right here at home, boys, where a well-to-do
Man’s plenty rich enough – and knows it, too,
And’s got a’ extry dollar, any time,
To boost a feller up ‘at wants to climb
And ‘s got the git-up in him to go in
And git there, like he purt’-nigh allus kin!

Right here at home, boys, is the place fer us! –
Where folks’ heart’s bigger ‘n their money-pu’s’;
And where a common feller’s jes as good
As ary other in the neighborhood:
The World at large don’t worry you and me
Right here at home, boys, where we ort to be!

Right here at home, boys – jes right where we air! –
Birds don’t sing any sweeter anywhere:
Grass don’t grow any greener’n she grows
Acrost the pastur’ where the old path goes, –
All things in ear-shot’s purty, er in sight,
Right here at home, boys, ef we size ’em right.

Right here at home, boys, where the old home-place
Is sacerd to us as our mother’s face,
Jes as we rickollect her, last she smiled
And kissed us – dyin’ so and rickonciled,
Seein’ us all at home here – none astray –
Right here at home, boys, where she sleeps to-day.


“Oh, For A Home Of Rest!” by Eliza Paul Kirkbride Gurney

Oh, for a home of rest!
Time lags alone so slow, so wearily;
Couldst thou but smile on me, I should be blest.
Alas, alas! that never more may be.
Oh, for the sky-lark’s wing to soar to thee!

This earth I would forsake
For starry realms whose sky’s forever fair;
There, tears are shed not, hearts will cease to ache,
And sorrow’s plaintive voice shall never break
The heavenly stillness that is reigning there.

Life’s every charm has fled,
The world is all a wilderness to me;
“For thou art numbered with the silent dead.”
Oh, how my heart o’er this dark thought has bled!
How I have longed for wings to follow thee!

In visions of the night
With angel smile thou beckon’st me away,
Pointing to worlds where hope is free from blight;
And then a cloud comes o’er that brow of light,
Seeming to chide me for my long delay.

“Home” by Leonidas of Alexandria

Cling to thy home! if there the meanest shed
Yield thee a hearth and shelter for thy head,
And some poor plot, with vegetables stored,
Be all that Heaven allots thee for thy board,—
Unsavory bread, and herbs that scattered grow
Wild on the river brink or mountain brow,
Yet e’en this cheerless mansion shall provide
More heart’s repose than all the world beside.

“Locations And Times” by Walt Whitman

Locations and times – what is it in me that meets them all, whenever and wherever, and makes me at home?
Forms, colors, densities, odors – what is it in me that corresponds with them?

Romantic portrait of a young girl in a long red dress standing i

“My Early Home” by John Clare

Here sparrows build upon the trees,
And stockdove hides her nest;
The leaves are winnowed by the breeze
Into a calmer rest;
The black-cap’s song was very sweet,
That used the rose to kiss;
It made the Paradise complete:
My early home was this.

The red-breast from the sweetbriar bush
Drop’t down to pick the worm;
On the horse-chestnut sang the thrush,
O’er the house where I was born;
The moonlight, like a shower of pearls,
Fell o’er this “bower of bliss,”
And on the bench sat boys and girls:
My early home was this.

The old house stooped just like a cave,
Thatched o’er with mosses green;
Winter around the walls would rave,
But all was calm within;
The trees are here all green agen,
Here bees the flowers still kiss,
But flowers and trees seemed sweeter then:
My early home was this.

“Song” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Stay, stay at home, my heart, and rest;
Home-keeping hearts are happiest,
For those that wander they know not where
Are full of trouble and full of care;
To stay at home is best.

Weary and homesick and distressed,
They wander east, they wander west,
And are baffled and beaten and blown about
By the winds of the wilderness of doubt;
To stay at home is best.

Then stay at home, my heart, and rest;
The bird is safest in its nest;
O’er all that flutter their wings and fly
A hawk is hovering in the sky;
To stay at home is best.

“Home and Love” by Robert William Service

Just Home and Love! the words are small
Four little letters unto each;
And yet you will not find in all
The wide and gracious range of speech
Two more so tenderly complete:
When angels talk in Heaven above,
I’m sure they have no words more sweet
Than Home and Love.

Just Home and Love! it’s hard to guess
Which of the two were best to gain;
Home without Love is bitterness;
Love without Home is often pain.
No! each alone will seldom do;
Somehow they travel hand and glove:
If you win one you must have two,
Both Home and Love.

And if you’ve both, well then I’m sure
You ought to sing the whole day long;
It doesn’t matter if you’re poor
With these to make divine your song.
And so I praisefully repeat,
When angels talk in Heaven above,
There are no words more simply sweet
Than Home and Love.

leaping stream

“My Home” by Luis G. Dato

Up by a leaping stream,
And cradled ’neath the hills,
The hallowed moments seem
Eternities of thrills.

The river runs its course
Half round my little nest,
Where birds are never hoarse
Singing in play and rest.

O’er the roof the cadenas creep,
Soft grasses clothe the lawn,
Which with the twilight weep
And pray for a new dawn.

At morn the butterflies
Are early on the wing,
And when the evening dies,
I hear the late bird sing.

There joy no sorrows mar,
Its cup is empty never,
Wherein griefs, falling, are
Lost in the depths forever.

Poems About Homeland

Young woman blonde fantasy princess Cinderella in glamorous blue dress stands in white room huge window. Long skirt tulle train hem. Romantic elegant image medieval queen, crown. Historical lady girl

“My Land.” by Thomas Osborne Davis

She is a rich and rare land;
Oh! she’s a fresh and fair land;
She is a dear and rare land–
This native land of mine.

No men than her’s are braver–
Her women’s hearts ne’er waver;
I’d freely die to save her,
And think my lot divine.

She’s not a dull or cold land;
No! she’s a warm and bold land;
Oh! she’s a true and old land–
This native land of mine.

Could beauty ever guard her,
And virtue still reward her,
No foe would cross her border–
No friend within it pine!

Oh! she’s a fresh and fair land;
Oh! she’s a true and rare land;
Yes! she’s a rare and fair land–
This native land of mine.

“From Home” by George MacDonald

Some men there are who cannot spare
A single tear until they feel
The last cold pressure, and the heel
Is stamped upon the outmost layer.

And, waking, some will sigh to think
The clouds have borrowed winter’s wing,
Sad winter, when the grasses spring
No more about the fountain’s brink.

And some would call me coward fool:
I lay a claim to better blood,
But yet a heap of idle mud
Hath power to make me sorrowful.

“Joaquin Miller’s Home On The Hights” by Joaquin Miller

Rugged! Rugged as Parnassus!
Rude, as all roads I have trod
Yet are steeps and stone-strewn passes
Smooth o’erhead, and nearest God.
Here black thunders of my canyon
Shake its walls in Titan wars!
Here white sea-born clouds companion
With such peaks as know the stars.

Steep below me lies the valley,
Deep below me lies the town,
Where great sea-ships ride and rally,
And the world walks up and down.
O, the sea of lights far streaming
When the thousand flags are furled
When the gleaming bay lies dreaming
As it duplicates the world.

shooting a bow

“Patriot Fighting For His Home.” by James McIntyre

On the shores of the northern lakes
An infant giant now awakes,
He has long time been in a dream,
But now is roused by engine’s scream.

For mighty spirits are abroad
Traversing of each great railroad,
For it is a glorious theme
The peaceful conquest made by steam.

But should the foot of invader vile
Ever desecrate his soil,
He firm will meet him bold and brave
And give him soil Canadian grave.

“Prophets At Home” by Rudyard Kipling

Prophets have honour all over the Earth,
Except in the village where they were born,
Where such as knew them boys from birth
Nature-ally hold ’em in scorn.
When Prophets are naughty and young and vain,
They make a won’erful grievance of it;
(You can see by their writings how they complain),
But 0, ’tis won’erful good for the Prophet!

There’s nothing Nineveh Town can give
(Nor being swallowed by whales between),
Makes up for the place where a man’s folk live,
Which don’t care nothing what he has been.
He might ha’ been that, or he might ha’ been this,
But they love and they hate him for what he is.

“Indiana” by James Whitcomb Riley

Our Land – our Home – the common home indeed
Of soil-born children and adopted ones –
The stately daughters and the stalwart sons
Of Industry: All greeting and godspeed!
O home to proudly live for, and if need
Be proudly die for, with the roar of guns
Blent with our latest prayer. So died men once…
Lo Peace…! As we look on the land They freed –
Its harvests all in ocean-over flow
Poured round autumnal coasts in billowy gold –
Its corn and wine and balmed fruits and flow’rs,
We know the exaltation that they know
Who now, steadfast inheritors, behold
The Land Elysian, marvelling “This is ours?”

princess in celtic forest

“Monica’s Last Prayer” by Matthew Arnold

‘Oh could thy grave at home, at Carthage, be!’
Care not for that, and lay me where I fall.
Everywhere heard will be the judgment-call.
But at God’s altar, oh! remember me.

Thus Monica, and died in Italy.
Yet fervent had her longing been, through all
Her course, for home at last, and burial
With her own husband, by the Libyan sea.

Had been; but at the end, to her pure soul
All tie with all beside seem’d vain and cheap,
And union before God the only care.

Creeds pass, rites change, no altar standeth whole;
Yet we her memory, as she pray’d, will keep,
Keep by this: Life in God, and union there!

“A Ballade of Home” by Enid Derham

Let others prate of Greece and Rome,
And towns where they may never be,
The muse should wander nearer home.
My country is enough for me;
Her wooded hills that watch the sea,
Her inland miles of springing corn,
At Macedon or Barrakee,
I love the land where I was born.

On Juliet smile the autumn stars
And windswept plains by Winchelsea,
In summer on their sandy bars
Her rivers loiter languidly.
Where singing waters fall and flee
The gullied ranges dip to Lorne
With musk and gum and myrtle tree,
I love the land where I was born.

The wild things in her tangles move
As blithe as fauns in Sicily,
Where Melbourne rises roof by roof
The tall ships serve her at the quay,
And hers the yoke of liberty
On stalwart shoulders lightly worn,
Where thought and speech and prayer are free,
I love the land where I was born.

Princes and lords of high degree,
Smile, and we fling you scorn for scorn,
In hope and faith and memory
I love the land where I was born.

“Home, Sweet Home.” by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper

“It shall be a royal mansion,
A fair and beautiful thing,
It will be the presence-chamber
Of thy Saviour, Lord and King.

“Thy house shall be bound with pinions
To mansions of rest above,
But grace shall forge all the fetters
With the links and cords of love.

“Thou shalt be free in this mansion
From sorrow and pain of heart,
For the peace of God shall enter,
And never again depart.”

Sharers of a common country,
They had met in deadly strife;
Men who should have been as brothers
Madly sought each other’s life.

In the silence of the even,
When the cannon’s lips were dumb,
Thoughts of home and all its loved ones
To the soldier’s heart would come.

On the margin of a river,
‘Mid the evening’s dews and damps,
Could be heard the sounds of music
Rising from two hostile camps.

One was singing of its section
Down in Dixie, Dixie’s land,
And the other of the banner
Waved so long from strand to strand.

In the land where Dixie’s ensign
Floated o’er the hopeful slave,
Rose the song that freedom’s banner,
Starry-lighted, long might wave.

From the fields of strife and carnage,
Gentle thoughts began to roam,
And a tender strain of music
Rose with words of “Home, Sweet Home.”

Then the hearts of strong men melted,
For amid our grief and sin
Still remains that “touch of nature,”
Telling us we all are kin.

In one grand but gentle chorus,
Floating to the starry dome,
Came the words that brought them nearer,
Words that told of “Home, Sweet Home.”

For awhile, all strife forgotten,
They were only brothers then,
Joining in the sweet old chorus,
Not as soldiers, but as men.

Men whose hearts would flow together,
Though apart their feet might roam,
Found a tie they could not sever,
In the mem’ry of each home.

Never may the steps of carnage
Shake our land from shore to shore,
But may mother, home and Heaven,
Be our watchwords evermore.

Princess in an vintage dress before the magic castle

“Realisation (At The Old Homestead)” by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

I tread the paths of earlier times
Where all my steps were set to rhymes.

I gaze on scenes I used to see
When dreaming of a vague To be.

I walk in ways made bright of old
By hopes youth-limned in hues of gold.

But lo! those hopes of future bliss
Seem dull beside the joy that IS.

My noonday skies are far more bright
Than those dreamed of in morning’s light,

And life gives me more joys to hold
Than all it promised me of old.

Poems About Homecoming

Princess walking in flowering garden

“The Road Home.” by Madison Julius Cawein

Over the hills, as the pewee flies,
Under the blue of the Southern skies;
Over the hills, where the red-bird wings
Like a scarlet blossom, or sits and sings:

Under the shadow of rock and tree,
Where the warm wind drones with the honey-bee;
And the tall wild-carrots around you sway
Their lace-like flowers of cloudy gray:

By the black-cohosh with its pearly plume
A-nod in the woodland’s odorous gloom;
By the old rail-fence, in the elder’s shade,
That the myriad hosts of the weeds invade:

Where the butterfly-weed, like a coal of fire,
Blurs orange-red through bush and brier;
Where the pennyroyal and mint smell sweet,
And blackberries tangle the summer heat,

The old road leads; then crosses the creek,
Where the minnow dartles, a silvery streak;
Where the cows wade deep through the blue-eyed grass,
And the flickering dragonflies gleaming pass.

That road is easy, however long,
Which wends with beauty as toil with song;
And the road we follow shall lead us straight
Past creek and wood to a farmhouse gate.

Past hill and hollow, whence scents are blown
Of dew-wet clover that scythes have mown;
To a house that stands with porches wide
And gray low roof on the green hill-side.

Colonial, stately; ‘mid shade and shine
Of the locust-tree and the Southern pine;
With its orchard acres and meadowlands
Stretched out before it like welcoming hands.

And gardens, where, in the myrrh-sweet June,
Magnolias blossom with many a moon
Of fragrance; and, in the feldspar light
Of August, roses bloom red and white.

In a woodbine arbor, a perfumed place,
A slim girl sits with a happy face;
Her bonnet by her, a sunbeam lies
On her lovely hair, in her earnest eyes.

Her eyes, as blue as the distant deeps
Of the heavens above where the high hawk sleeps;
A book beside her, wherein she read
Till she saw him coming, she heard his tread.

Come home at last; come back from the war;
In his eyes a smile, on his brow a scar:
To the South come back who wakes from her dream
To the love and peace of a new regime.

“A Dutch Picture” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Simon Danz has come home again,
From cruising about with his buccaneers;
He has singed the beard of the King of Spain,
And carried away the Dean of Jaen
And sold him in Algiers.

In his house by the Maese, with its roof of tiles,
And weathercocks flying aloft in air,
There are silver tankards of antique styles,
Plunder of convent and castle, and piles
Of carpets rich and rare.

In his tulip-garden there by the town,
Overlooking the sluggish stream,
With his Moorish cap and dressing-gown,
The old sea-captain, hale and brown,
Walks in a waking dream.

A smile in his gray mustachio lurks
Whenever he thinks of the King of Spain,
And the listed tulips look like Turks,
And the silent gardener as he works
Is changed to the Dean of Jaen.

The windmills on the outermost
Verge of the landscape in the haze,
To him are towers on the Spanish coast,
With whiskered sentinels at their post,
Though this is the river Maese.

But when the winter rains begin,
He sits and smokes by the blazing brands,
And old seafaring men come in,
Goat-bearded, gray, and with double chin,
And rings upon their hands.

They sit there in the shadow and shine
Of the flickering fire of the winter night;
Figures in color and design
Like those by Rembrandt of the Rhine,
Half darkness and half light.

And they talk of ventures lost or won,
And their talk is ever and ever the same,
While they drink the red wine of Tarragon,
From the cellars of some Spanish Don,
Or convent set on flame.

Restless at times with heavy strides
He paces his parlor to and fro;
He is like a ship that at anchor rides,
And swings with the rising and falling tides,
And tugs at her anchor-tow.

Voices mysterious far and near,
Sound of the wind and sound of the sea,
Are calling and whispering in his ear,
“Simon Danz! Why stayest thou here?
Come forth and follow me!”

So he thinks he shall take to the sea again
For one more cruise with his buccaneers,
To singe the beard of the King of Spain,
And capture another Dean of Jaen
And sell him in Algiers.

“Coming Home” by Ringgold Wilmer Lardner

Prepare for noise, you quiet walls!
You floors, get set for heavy falls!
Frail dishes, hide away!
Get ready for some scratches, stairs!
Clean table linen, say your prayers!
The kid comes home today!

For three long weeks you’ve been, O House,
As noiseless as the well-known mouse,
As silent as the tomb.
And you’ve stayed neat, with none on hand
To track your floors with mud and sand,
To muss your ev’ry room.

The ideal place for work you’ve been,
But soon a Bedlam once again,
A mess, a wreck. But say,
I wonder will it make us mad.
No, House, I’ll bet we both are glad
The kid comes home today.

bright creative photo of young beauty, girl in white dress with green cape in bright bottom forest with basket of juicy ripe apples, fabulous princess with closed eyes and red healthy wavy hair

“Goin’ Home To-Day.” by William McKendree Carleton

My business on the jury’s done – the quibblin’ all is through –
I’ve watched the lawyers right and left, and give my verdict true;
I stuck so long unto my chair, I thought I would grow in;
And if I do not know myself, they’ll get me there ag’in;
But now the court’s adjourned for good, and I have got my pay;
I’m loose at last, and thank the Lord, I’m going home to-day.

I’ve somehow felt uneasy like, since first day I come down;
It is an awkward game to play the gentleman in town;
And this ‘ere Sunday suit of mine on Sunday rightly sets;
But when I wear the stuff a week, it somehow galls and frets.
I’d rather wear my homespun rig of pepper-salt and gray –
I’ll have it on in half a jiff, when I get home to-day.

I have no doubt my wife looked out, as well as any one –
As well as any woman could – to see that things was done:
For though Melinda, when I’m there, won’t set her foot outdoors,
She’s very careful, when I’m gone, to tend to all the chores.
But nothing prospers half so well when I go off to stay,
And I will put things into shape, when I get home to-day.

The mornin’ that I come away, we had a little bout;
I coolly took my hat and left, before the show was out.
For what I said was naught whereat she ought to take offense;
And she was always quick at words and ready to commence.
But then she’s first one to give up when she has had her say;
And she will meet me with a kiss, when I go home to-day.

My little boy – I’ll give ’em leave to match him, if they can;
It’s fun to see him strut about, and try to be a man!
The gamest, cheeriest little chap, you’d ever want to see!
And then they laugh, because I think the child resembles me.
The little rogue! he goes for me, like robbers for their prey;
He’ll turn my pockets inside out, when I get home to-day.

My little girl – I can’t contrive how it should happen thus –
That God could pick that sweet bouquet, and fling it down to us!
My wife, she says that han’some face will some day make a stir;
And then I laugh, because she thinks the child resembles her.
She’ll meet me half-way down the hill, and kiss me, any way;
And light my heart up with her smiles, when I go home to-day!

If there’s a heaven upon the earth, a fellow knows it when
He’s been away from home a week, and then gets back again.
If there’s a heaven above the earth, there often, I’ll be bound,
Some homesick fellow meets his folks, and hugs ’em all around.
But let my creed be right or wrong, or be it as it may,
My heaven is just ahead of me – I’m going home to-day.

“When The Children Come Home” by Henry Lawson

On a lonely selection far out in the West
An old woman works all the day without rest,
And she croons, as she toils ‘neath the sky’s glassy dome,
`Sure I’ll keep the ould place till the childer come home.’

She mends all the fences, she grubs, and she ploughs,
She drives the old horse and she milks all the cows,
And she sings to herself as she thatches the stack,
`Sure I’ll keep the ould place till the childer come back.’

It is five weary years since her old husband died;
And oft as he lay on his deathbed he sighed
`Sure one man can bring up ten children, he can,
An’ it’s strange that ten sons cannot keep one old man.’

Whenever the scowling old sundowners come,
And cunningly ask if the master’s at home,
`Be off,’ she replies, `with your blarney and cant,
Or I’ll call my son Andy; he’s workin’ beyant.’

`Git out,’ she replies, though she trembles with fear,
For she lives all alone and no neighbours are near;
But she says to herself, when she’s like to despond,
That the boys are at work in the paddock beyond.

Ah, none of her children need follow the plough,
And some have grown rich in the city ere now;
Yet she says: `They might come when the shearing is done,
And I’ll keep the ould place if it’s only for one.’

“The Caged Thrush Freed And Home Again” by Thomas Hardy

“Men know but little more than we,
Who count us least of things terrene,
How happy days are made to be!

“Of such strange tidings what think ye,
O birds in brown that peck and preen?
Men know but little more than we!

“When I was borne from yonder tree
In bonds to them, I hoped to glean
How happy days are made to be,

“And want and wailing turned to glee;
Alas, despite their mighty mien
Men know but little more than we!

“They cannot change the Frost’s decree,
They cannot keep the skies serene;
How happy days are made to be

“Eludes great Man’s sagacity
No less than ours, O tribes in treen!
Men know but little more than we
How happy days are made to be.”

woman portrait in the fantasy castle

“Love Is Home” by George MacDonald

Love is the part, and love is the whole;
Love is the robe, and love is the pall;
Ruler of heart and brain and soul,
Love is the lord and the slave of all!
I thank thee, Love, that thou lov’st me;
I thank thee more that I love thee.

Love is the rain, and love is the air,
Love is the earth that holdeth fast;
Love is the root that is buried there,
Love is the open flower at last!
I thank thee, Love all round about,
That the eyes of my love are looking out.

Love is the sun, and love is the sea;
Love is the tide that comes and goes;
Flowing and flowing it comes to me;
Ebbing and ebbing to thee it flows!
Oh my sun, and my wind, and tide!
My sea, and my shore, and all beside!

Light, oh light that art by showing;
Wind, oh wind that liv’st by motion;
Thought, oh thought that art by knowing;
Will, that art born in self-devotion!
Love is you, though not all of you know it;
Ye are not love, yet ye always show it!

Faithful creator, heart-longed-for father,
Home of our heart-infolded brother,
Home to thee all thy glories gather–
All are thy love, and there is no other!
O Love-at-rest, we loves that roam–
Home unto thee, we are coming home!

From “A Shropshire Lad” (The Recruit) by Alfred Edward Housman

Leave your home behind, lad,
And reach your friends your hand,
And go, and luck go with you
While Ludlow tower shall stand.

Oh, come you home of Sunday
When Ludlow streets are still
And Ludlow bells are calling
To farm and lane and mill,

Or come you home of Monday
When Ludlow market hums
And Ludlow chimes are playing
“The conquering hero comes,”

Come you home a hero,
Or come not home at all,
The lads you leave will mind you
Till Ludlow tower shall fall.

And you will list the bugle
That blows in lands of morn,
And make the foes of England
Be sorry you were born.

And you till trump of doomsday
On lands of morn may lie,
And make the hearts of comrades
Be heavy where you die.

Leave your home behind you,
Your friends by field and town
Oh, town and field will mind you
Till Ludlow tower is down.

“The Home Lights” by Fay Inchfawn

“In my father’s house!” The words
Bring sweet cadence to my ears.
Wandering thoughts, like homing birds,
Fly all swiftly down the years,
To that wide casement, where I always see
Bright love-lamps leaning out to welcome me.

Sweet it was, how sweet to go
To the worn, familiar door.
No need to stand a while, and wait,
Outside the well-remembered gate;
No need to knock;
The easy lock
Turned almost of itself, and so
My spirit was “at home” once more.
And then, within, how good to find
The same cool atmosphere of peace,
Where I, a tired child, might cease
To grieve, or dread,
Or toil for bread.
I could forget
The dreary fret.
The strivings after hopes too high,
I let them every one go by.
The ills of life, the blows unkind,
These fearsome things were left behind.


O trembling soul of mine,
See how God’s mercies shine!
When thou shalt rise,
And, stripped of earth, shall stand
Within an Unknown Land;
Alone, where no familiar thing
May bring familiar comforting;
Look up! ‘Tis but thy Father’s House! And, see
His love-lamps leaning out to welcome thee!

going home

“Going Home” by Robert William Service

I’m goin’ ‘ome to Blighty – ain’t I glad to ‘ave the chance!
I’m loaded up wiv fightin’, and I’ve ‘ad my fill o’ France;
I’m feelin’ so excited-like, I want to sing and dance,
For I’m goin’ ‘ome to Blighty in the mawnin’.

I’m goin’ ‘ome to Blighty: can you wonder as I’m gay?
I’ve got a wound I wouldn’t sell for ‘alf a year o’ pay;
A harm that’s mashed to jelly in the nicest sort o’ way,
For it takes me ‘ome to Blighty in the mawnin’.

‘Ow everlastin’ keen I was on gettin’ to the front!
I’d ginger for a dozen, and I ‘elped to bear the brunt;
But Cheese and Crust! I’m crazy, now I’ve done me little stunt,
To sniff the air of Blighty in the mawnin’.

I’ve looked upon the wine that’s white, and on the wine that’s red;
I’ve looked on cider flowin’, till it fairly turned me ‘ead;
But oh, the finest scoff will be, when all is done and said,
A pint o’ Bass in Blighty in the mawnin’.

I’m goin’ back to Blighty, which I left to strafe the ‘Un;
I’ve fought in bloody battles, and I’ve ‘ad a ‘eap of fun;
But now me flipper’s busted, and I think me dooty’s done,
And I’ll kiss me gel in Blighty in the mawnin’.

Oh, there be furrin’ lands to see, and some of ’em be fine;
And there be furrin’ gels to kiss, and scented furrin’ wine;
But there’s no land like England, and no other gel like mine:
Thank Gawd for dear old Blighty in the mawnin’.

“His Room” by James Whitcomb Riley

“I’m home again, my dear old Room,
I’m home again, and happy, too,
As, peering through the brightening gloom,
I find myself alone with you:
Though brief my stay, nor far away,
I missed you – missed you night and day –
As wildly yearned for you as now. –
Old Room, how are you, anyhow?

“My easy chair, with open arms,
Awaits me just within the door;
The littered carpet’s woven charms
Have never seemed so bright before, –
The old rosettes and mignonettes
And ivy-leaves and violets,
Look up as pure and fresh of hue
As though baptized in morning dew.

“Old Room, to me your homely walls
Fold round me like the arms of love,
And over all my being falls
A blessing pure as from above –
Even as a nestling child caressed
And lulled upon a loving breast,
With folded eyes, too glad to weep
And yet too sad for dreams or sleep.

“You’ve been so kind to me, old Room –
So patient in your tender care,
My drooping heart in fullest bloom
Has blossomed for you unaware;
And who but you had cared to woo
A heart so dark, and heavy, too,
As in the past you lifted mine
From out the shadow to the shine?

“For I was but a wayward boy
When first you gladly welcomed me
And taught me work was truer joy
Than rioting incessantly:
And thus the din that stormed within
The old guitar and violin
Has fallen in a fainter tone
And sweeter, for your sake alone.

“Though in my absence I have stood
In festal halls a favored guest,
I missed, in this old quietude,
My worthy work and worthy rest –
By this I know that long ago
You loved me first, and told me so
In art’s mute eloquence of speech
The voice of praise may never reach.

“For lips and eyes in truth’s disguise
Confuse the faces of my friends,
Till old affection’s fondest ties
I find unraveling at the ends;
But as I turn to you, and learn
To meet my griefs with less concern,
Your love seems all I have to keep
Me smiling lest I needs must weep.

“Yet I am happy, and would fain
Forget the world and all its woes;
So set me to my tasks again,
Old Room, and lull me to repose:
And as we glide adown the tide
Of dreams, forever side by side,
I’ll hold your hands as lovers do
Their sweethearts’ and talk love to you.”

“Returning” by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

I years had been from home,
And now, before the door,
I dared not open, lest a face
I never saw before

Stare vacant into mine
And ask my business there.
My business, — just a life I left,
Was such still dwelling there?

I fumbled at my nerve,
I scanned the windows near;
The silence like an ocean rolled,
And broke against my ear.

I laughed a wooden laugh
That I could fear a door,
Who danger and the dead had faced,
But never quaked before.

I fitted to the latch
My hand, with trembling care,
Lest back the awful door should spring,
And leave me standing there.

I moved my fingers off
As cautiously as glass,
And held my ears, and like a thief
Fled gasping from the house.

woman princess walk enjoy autumn forest nature back view. Lady Witch queen brunette wavy hair. Red vintage luxury tulle fluffy magnificent dress long train. spring park garden black bare tree trunks

“Home” by Madison Julius Cawein

I dream again I ‘m in the lane
That leads me home through night and rain;
Again the fence I see and, dense,
The garden, wet and sweet of sense;
Then mother’s window, with its starry line
Of light, o’ergrown with rose and trumpetvine.

What was ‘t I heard? Her voice? A bird?
Singing? Or was ‘t the rain that stirred
The dripping leaves and draining eaves
Of shed and barn, one scarce perceives
Past garden-beds where oldtime flowers hang wet
Pale phlox and candytuft and mignonette.

The hour is late. I can not wait.
Quick. Let me hurry to the gate!
Upon the roof the rain is proof
Against my horse’s galloping hoof;
And if the old gate, with its weight and chain,
Should creak, she ‘ll think it just the wind and rain.

Along I ‘ll steal, with cautious heel,
And at the lamplit window kneel:
And there she ‘ll sit and rock and knit,
While on her face the light will flit,
As I have seen her, many a night and day,
Dreaming of home that is so far away.

Upon the pane, dim, blurred with rain,
I ‘ll knock and call out, “Home again!”
And at a stride fling warm and wide
The door and catch her to my side
Mother! as once I clasped her when a boy,
Sobbing my heart out on her breast for joy!

“Home” by Rupert Brooke

I came back late and tired last night
Into my little room,
To the long chair and the firelight
And comfortable gloom.

But as I entered softly in
I saw a woman there,
The line of neck and cheek and chin,
The darkness of her hair,
The form of one I did not know
Sitting in my chair.

I stood a moment fierce and still,
Watching her neck and hair.
I made a step to her; and saw
That there was no one there.

It was some trick of the firelight
That made me see her there.
It was a chance of shade and light
And the cushion in the chair.

Oh, all you happy over the earth,
That night, how could I sleep?
I lay and watched the lonely gloom;
And watched the moonlight creep
From wall to basin, round the room,
All night I could not sleep.

“Homeward We Turn. Isle Of Columba’s Cell” by William Wordsworth

Homeward we turn. Isle of Columba’s Cell,
Where Christian piety’s soul-cheering spark
(Kindled from Heaven between the light and dark
Of time) shone like the morning-star, farewell!
And fare thee well, to Fancy visible,
Remote St. Kilda, lone and loved sea-mark
For many a voyage made in her swift bark,
When with more hues than in the rainbow dwell
Thou a mysterious intercourse dost hold,
Extracting from clear skies and air serene,
And out of sun-bright waves, a lucid veil,
That thickens, spreads, and, mingling fold with fold,
Makes known, when thou no longer canst be seen,
Thy whereabout, to warn the approaching sail.

Fanasy woman sitting on sitting on the stairs. Beautiful girl in

“Home They Brought Her Warrior Dead” by Alfred Lord Tennyson

Home they brought her warrior dead:
She nor swooned, nor uttered cry:
All her maidens, watching, said,
‘She must weep or she will die.’

Then they praised him, soft and low,
Called him worthy to be loved,
Truest friend and noblest foe;
Yet she neither spoke nor moved.

Stole a maiden from her place,
Lightly to the warrior stepped,
Took the face-cloth from the face;
Yet she neither moved nor wept.

Rose a nurse of ninety years,
Set his child upon her knee’
Like summer tempest came her tears’
‘Sweet my child, I live for thee.’

“Bein’ Back Home” by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Home agin, an’ home to stay–
Yes, it’s nice to be away.
Plenty things to do an’ see,
But the old place seems to me
Jest about the proper thing.
Mebbe ‘ts ’cause the mem’ries cling
Closer ’round yore place o’ birth
‘N ary other spot on earth.

W’y it’s nice jest settin’ here,
Lookin’ out an’ seein’ clear,
‘Thout no smoke, ner dust, ner haze
In these sweet October days.
What’s as good as that there lane,
Kind o’ browned from last night’s rain?
‘Pears like home has got the start
When the goal’s a feller’s heart.

What’s as good as that there jay
Screechin’ up’ards towards the gray
Skies? An’ tell me, what’s as fine
As that full-leafed pumpkin vine?
Tow’rin’ buildin’s–? yes, they’re good;
But in sight o’ field and wood,
Then a feller understan’s
‘Bout the house not made with han’s.

Let the others rant an’ roam
When they git away from home;
Jest gi’ me my old settee
An’ my pipe beneath a tree;
Sight o’ medders green an’ still,
Now and then a gentle hill,
Apple orchards, full o’ fruit,
Nigh a cider press to boot–

That’s the thing jest done up brown;
D’want to be too nigh to town;
Want to have the smells an’ sights,
An’ the dreams o’ long still nights,
With the friends you used to know
In the keerless long ago–
Same old cronies, same old folks,
Same old cider, same old jokes.

Say, it’s nice a-gittin’ back,
When yore pulse is growin’ slack,
An’ yore breath begins to wheeze
Like a fair-set valley breeze;
Kind o’ nice to set aroun’
On the old familiar groun’,
Knowin’ that when Death does come,
That he’ll find you right at home.

“Home! Home!” by A. H. Laidlaw

Home! Home!
Man may roam
While the blood of life is brimming,
While the head’s with glory swimming;
But, when Love and Life are over,
Bring him to the village clover,
Home! Home!

Home! Home!
Bring him home,
Where the songs of sad hearts shrive him,
Where remorse no more shall rive him,
Where the ever weeping willow
Moults to make its leaves his pillow,
Home! Home!

Home! Home!
He is home,
Where his song was ever sounding,
Where his blood was ever bounding,
Here, at last, he leaves his madness,
All his love and all his sadness,
Home! Home!

Fantasy woman goddess runs in autumn magic forest looks back. Long luxurious gothic black silk dress flies in wind lady witch art old style. Girl fairy princess fashion model. Orange red foliage trees

“Good-Bye” by Ralph Waldo Emerson

Good-bye, proud world! I’m going home:
Thou art not my friend, and I’m not thine.
Long through thy weary crowds I roam;
A river-ark on the ocean brine,
Long I’ve been tossed like the driven foam:
But now, proud world! I’m going home.

Good-bye to Flattery’s fawning face;
To Grandeur with his wise grimace;
To upstart Wealth’s averted eye;
To supple Office, low and high;
To crowded halls, to court and street;
To frozen hearts and hasting feet;
To those who go, and those who come;
Good-bye, proud world! I’m going home.

I am going to my own hearth-stone,
Bosomed in yon green hills alone,–
secret nook in a pleasant land,
Whose groves the frolic fairies planned;
Where arches green, the livelong day,
Echo the blackbird’s roundelay,
And vulgar feet have never trod
A spot that is sacred to thought and God.

O, when I am safe in my sylvan home,
I tread on the pride of Greece and Rome;
And when I am stretched beneath the pines,
Where the evening star so holy shines,
I laugh at the lore and the pride of man,
At the sophist schools and the learned clan;
For what are they all, in their high conceit,
When man in the bush with God may meet?

“At Night” by Alice Christiana Thompson Meynell

Home, home from the horizon far and clear,
Hither the soft wings sweep;
Flocks of the memories of the day draw near
The dovecote doors of sleep.

O which are they that come through sweetest light
Of all these homing birds?
Which with the straightest and the swiftest flight?
Your words to me, your words!

“Our Ship” by George MacDonald

Had I a great ship coming home,
With big plunge o’er the sea,
What bright things, hid from star and foam,
Lay in her heart for thee!

The stormy billows heave and dip,
The wild winds veer and play;
But, regnant all, God’s stately ship
Is steering home this way!

portrait of pretty  female model with red hair wearing glamorou

“Home After Three Months Away” by Robert Lowell

Gone now the baby’s nurse,
a lioness who ruled the roost
and made the Mother cry.
She used to tie
gobbets of porkrind to bowknots of gauze
three months they hung like soggy toast
on our eight foot magnolia tree,
and helped the English sparrows
weather a Boston winter.

Three months, three months!
Is Richard now himself again?
Dimpled with exaltation,
my daughter holds her levee in the tub.
Our noses rub,
each of us pats a stringy lock of hair
they tell me nothing’s gone.
Though I am forty-one,
not forty now, the time I put away
was child’s play. After thirteen weeks
my child still dabs her cheeks
to start me shaving. When
we dress her in her sky-blue corduroy,
she changes to a boy,
and floats my shaving brush
and washcloth in the flush…
Dearest I cannot loiter here
in lather like a polar bear.

Recuperating, I neither spin nor toil.
Three stories down below,
a choreman tends our coffin length of soil,
and seven horizontal tulips blow.
Just twelve months ago,
these flowers were pedigreed
imported Dutchmen, now no one need
distinguish them from weed.
Bushed by the late spring snow,
they cannot meet
another year’s snowballing enervation.

I keep no rank nor station.
Cured, I am frizzled, stale and small.”

“Home Again.” by Madison Julius Cawein

Far down the lane
A window pane
Gleams ‘mid the trees through night and rain.
The weeds are dense
Through which a fence
Of pickets rambles, none sees whence,
Before a porch, all indistinct of line,
O’er-grown and matted with wistaria-vine.

No thing is heard,
No beast or bird,
Only the rain by which are stirred
The draining leaves,
And trickling eaves
Of crib and barn one scarce perceives;
And garden-beds where old-time flow’rs hang wet
The phlox, the candytuft, and mignonette.

The hour is late
At any rate
She has not heard him at the gate:
Upon the roof
The rain was proof
Against his horse’s galloping hoof:
And when the old gate with its weight and chain
Creaked, she imagined ‘t was the wind and rain.

Along he steals
With cautious heels,
And by the lamplit window kneels:
And there she sits,
And rocks and knits
Within the shadowy light that flits
On face and hair, so sweetly sad and gray,
Dreaming of him she thinks is far away.

Upon his cheeks
Is it the streaks
Of rain, as now the old porch creaks
Beneath his stride?
Then, warm and wide,
The door flings and she’s at his side
“Mother!” and he, back from the war, her boy,
Kisses her face all streaming wet with joy.

“My Childhood Home I See Again” by Abraham Lincoln

My childhood home I see again,
And sadden with the view;
And still, as memory crowds my brain,
There’s pleasure in it too.

O Memory! thou midway world
‘Twixt earth and paradise,
Where things decayed and loved ones lost
In dreamy shadows rise,

And, freed from all that’s earthly vile,
Seem hallowed, pure, and bright,
Like scenes in some enchanted isle
All bathed in liquid light.

As dusky mountains please the eye
When twilight chases day;
As bugle-notes that, passing by,
In distance die away;

As leaving some grand waterfall,
We, lingering, list its roar—
So memory will hallow all
We’ve known, but know no more.

Near twenty years have passed away
Since here I bid farewell
To woods and fields, and scenes of play,
And playmates loved so well.

Where many were, but few remain
Of old familiar things;
But seeing them, to mind again
The lost and absent brings.

The friends I left that parting day,
How changed, as time has sped!
Young childhood grown, strong manhood gray,
And half of all are dead.

I hear the loved survivors tell
How nought from death could save,
Till every sound appears a knell,
And every spot a grave.

I range the fields with pensive tread,
And pace the hollow rooms,
And feel (companion of the dead)
I’m living in the tombs.

Poems About Homesickness

19th century woman

“Home-Thoughts, From Abroad” by Robert Browning

Oh, to be in England
Now that April’s there,
And whoever wakes in England
Sees, some morning, unaware,
That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf
Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,
While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough
In England, now!!

And after April, when May follows,
And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!
Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge
Leans to the field and scatters on the clover
Blossoms and dewdrops, at the bent spray’s edge,
That’s the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,
Lest you should think he never could recapture
The first fine careless rapture!
And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,
All will be gay when noontide wakes anew
The buttercups, the little children’s dower
Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!

“Old Homes” by Madison Julius Cawein

Old homes among the hills! I love their gardens,
Their old rock-fences, that our day inherits;
Their doors, ’round which the great trees stand like wardens;
Their paths, down which the shadows march like spirits;
Broad doors and paths that reach bird-haunted gardens.

I see them gray among their ancient acres,
Severe of front, their gables lichen-sprinkled,–
Like gentle-hearted, solitary Quakers,
Grave and religious, with kind faces wrinkled,–
Serene among their memory-hallowed acres.

Their gardens, banked with roses and with lilies–
Those sweet aristocrats of all the flowers–
Where Springtime mints her gold in daffodillies,
And Autumn coins her marigolds in showers,
And all the hours are toilless as the lilies.

I love their orchards where the gay woodpecker
Flits, flashing o’er you, like a winged jewel;
Their woods, whose floors of moss the squirrels checker
With half-hulled nuts; and where, in cool renewal,
The wild brooks laugh, and raps the red woodpecker.

Old homes! old hearts! Upon my soul forever
Their peace and gladness lie like tears and laughter;
Like love they touch me, through the years that sever,
With simple faith; like friendship, draw me after
The dreamy patience that is theirs forever.

“Song Of The Lonely” by George MacDonald

Son, first-born, at home abiding!
All without is cold and bare:
Hide me from the tempest’s chiding
Warm beside the Father’s chair.

I am homesick, Lord of splendour!
Twilight fills my soul with fright:
Let thy countenance befriend her,
Shining from the halls of light.

I am homesick, loving Father!
Long years hath the pain increased:
Soon, oh soon! thy children gather
To the endless marriage-feast.

Young woman wearing a green dress explores a magical forest

“Holiday Home.” by Hattie Howard

Of all the sweet visions that come unto me
Of happy refreshment by land or by sea,
Like oases where in life’s desert I roam,
Is nothing so pleasant as Holiday Home.

I climb to the top of the highest of hills
And look to the west with affectionate thrills,
And fancy I stand by the emerald side
Of charming Geneva, like Switzerland’s pride.

In distant perspective unruffled it lies,
Except for the packet that paddles and plies,
And puffing its way like a pioneer makes
Its daily go-round o’er this pearl of the lakes.

Untroubled except for the urchins that come
From many a haunt that is never a home,
Instinctive as ducklings to swim and to wade,
Scarce knowing aforetime why water was made.

All placid except for the dip of the oar
Of the skiff, or the barge striking out from the shore,
While merry excursionists shout till the gale
Reverberates laughter through rigging and sail.

How it scallops its basin and shimmers and shines
Like a salver of silver encompassed with vines,
In crystal illusion reflecting the skies
And the mountain that seems from its bosom to rise.

There stands a great house on a summit so high,
Like an eyrie of safety enroofed by the sky;
And I think of the rest and the comfort up there
To sleep, and to breathe that empyreal air.

Oh, the charm of the glen and the stream and the wood
Can never be written, nor be understood,
Except by the weary and languid who come
To bask in the quiet of Holiday Home.

From prisonlike cellars unwholesome and drear,
From attic and alley, from labor severe,
For the poor and the famished doth kindness prepare
A world of diversion and excellent fare.

To swing in the hammock, disport in the breeze,
To lie in the shade of magnificent trees –
Oh, this is like quaffing from luxury’s bowl
The life-giving essence for body and soul!

Nor distance nor time shall efface from the mind
The influence gentle, the ministry kind;
While gratitude fondly enhallows the thought
Of a home and a holiday never forgot.

Ah, one is remembered of saintliest men
To lovely Geneva who comes not again;
Who left a sweet impress wherever he trod,
Humanity’s helper, companion of God.

In the hearts of the many there sheltered and fed,
As unto a hospice by Providence led,
Does often a thought like a sunbeam intrude
Of the bounty so free, and the donors so good?

Who of their abundance have cheerfully given
Wherewith to develop an embryo heaven –
To brighten conditions too hard and too sad
And make the unhappy contented and glad.

Be blessedness theirs, who like knights of renown
Thus scatter such largesse o’er country and town,
Their monument building in many a dome
Like healthful and beautiful Holiday Home.

“The Songs of Home.” by George Pope Morris

Oh, sing once more those dear, familiar lays,
Whose gliding measure every bosom thrills,
And takes my heart back to the happy days
When first I sang them on my native hills!
With the fresh feelings of the olden times,
I hear them now upon a foreign shore–
The simple music and the artless rhymes!
Oh, sing those dear, familiar lays once more,
Those cheerful lays of other days–
Oh, sing those cheerful lays once more!

Oh, sing once more those joy-provoking strains,
Which, half forgotten, in my memory dwell;
They send the life-blood bounding thro’ my veins,
And linger round me like a fairy spell.
The songs of home are to the human heart
Far dearer than the notes that song-birds pour,
And of our very nature form a part:
Then sing those dear, familiar lays once more!
Those cheerful lays of other days–
Oh, sing those cheerful lays once more!

“The Red House” by John Frederick Freeman

On the wide fields the water gleams like snow,
And snow like water pale beneath pale sky,
When old and burdened the white clouds are stooped low.
Sudden as thought, or startled near bird’s cry,
The whiteness of first light on hills of snow
New dropped from skiey hills of tumbling white
Streams from the ridge to where the long woods lie;
And tall ridge-trees lift their soft crowns of white
Above slim bodies all black or flecked with snow.
By the tossed foam of the not yet frozen brook
Black pigs go straggling over fields of snow;
The air is full of snow, and starling and rook
Are blacker amid the myriad streams of light.
Warm as old fire the Red House burns yet bright
Beneath the unmelting snows of pine and larch,
While February moves as slow, as slow
As Spring might never come, never come March.

Amid such snows, by generations haunted,
By echoes, memories and dreams enchanted,
Firm when dark winds through the night stamp and shout,
Brightest when time silvers the world all about,
That old house called The Heart burns, burns, and still
Outbraves the mortal threat of the hanging hill.

woman portrait in the fantasy castle

“Home Yearnings” by John Clare

O for that sweet, untroubled rest
That poets oft have sung!–
The babe upon its mother’s breast,
The bird upon its young,
The heart asleep without a pain–
When shall I know that sleep again?

When shall I be as I have been
Upon my mother’s breast–
Sweet Nature’s garb of verdant green
To woo to perfect rest–
Love in the meadow, field, and glen,
And in my native wilds again?

The sheep within the fallow field,
The herd upon the green,
The larks that in the thistle shield,
And pipe from morn to e’en–
O for the pasture, fields, and fen!
When shall I see such rest again?

I love the weeds along the fen,
More sweet than garden flowers,
For freedom haunts the humble glen
That blest my happiest hours.
Here prison injures health and me:
I love sweet freedom and the free.

The crows upon the swelling hills,
The cows upon the lea,
Sheep feeding by the pasture rills,
Are ever dear to me,
Because sweet freedom is their mate,
While I am lone and desolate.

I loved the winds when I was young,
When life was dear to me;
I loved the song which Nature sung,
Endearing liberty;
I loved the wood, the vale, the stream,
For there my boyhood used to dream.

There even toil itself was play;
‘T was pleasure e’en to weep;
‘T was joy to think of dreams by day,
The beautiful of sleep.
When shall I see the wood and plain,
And dream those happy dreams again?

“Home.” by John Clare

O home, however homely,–thoughts of thee
Can never fail to cheer the absent breast;
How oft wild raptures have been felt by me,
When back returning, weary and distrest:
How oft I’ve stood to see the chimney pour
Thick clouds of smoke in columns lightly blue,
And, close beneath, the house-leek’s yellow flower,
While fast approaching to a nearer view.
These, though they’re trifles, ever gave delight;
E’en now they prompt me with a fond desire,
Painting the evening group before my sight,
Of friends and kindred seated round the fire.
O Time! how rapid did thy moments flow,
That chang’d these scenes of joy to scenes of woe.

“Home-Thoughts, From The Sea” by Robert Browning

Nobly, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the North-west died away;
Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into Cadiz Bay;
Bluish mid the burning water, full in face Trafalgar lay;
In the dimmest North-east distance dawned Gibraltar grand and gray;
‘Here and here did England help me: how can I help England?’ say,
Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to God to praise and pray,
While Jove’s planet rises yonder, silent over Africa.

mysterious pretty lady with blond curly hair looks down modestly, enchanted girl in chic light white long vintage dress with open shoulders in dark cloak, princess in gothic castle with large windows

“Thoughts of Home.” by Arthur Hugh Clough

I watched them from the window, thy children at their play,
And I thought of all my own dear friends, who were far, oh, far away,
And childish loves, and childish cares, and a child’s own buoyant gladness
Came gushing back again to me with a soft and solemn sadness;
And feelings frozen up full long, and thoughts of long ago,
Seemed to be thawing at my heart with a warm and sudden flow.

I looked upon thy children, and I thought of all and each,
Of my brother and my sister, and our rambles on the beach,
Of my mother’s gentle voice, and my mother’s beckoning hand,
And all the tales she used to tell of the far, far English land;
And the happy, happy evening hours, when I sat on my father’s knee,
Oh! many a wave is rolling now betwixt that seat and me!

And many a day has passed away since, I left them o’er the sea,
And I have lived a life since then of boyhood’s thoughtless glee;
Yet of the blessed times gone by not seldom would I dream,
And childhood’s joy, like faint far stars, in memory’s heaven would gleam,
And o’er the sea to those I loved my thoughts would often roam,
But never knew I until now the blessings of a home!

I used to think when I was there that my own true home was here,
But home is not in land or sky, but in those whom each holds dear.
The evening’s cooling breeze is fanning my temples now,
But then my frame was languid, and heated was my brow,
And I longed for England’s cool, and for England’s breezes then,
But now I would give full many a breeze to be back in the heat again.

But when cold strange looks without, and proud high thoughts within,
Are weaving round my heart the woof of selfishness and sin;
When self begins to roll a far, a worse and wider sea
Of careless and unloving thoughts between those friends and me,
I will think upon these moments, and call to mind the day
When I watched them from the window, thy children at their play.

“Homesick” by Fay Inchfawn

I shut my eyes to rest ’em, just a bit ago it seems,
An’ back among the Cotswolds I were wanderin’ in me dreams.
I saw the old grey homestead, with the rickyard set around,
An’ catched the lowin’ of the herd, a pleasant, homelike sound.
Then on I went a-singin’, through the pastures where the sheep
Was lyin’ underneath the elms, a-tryin’ for to sleep.

An’ where the stream was tricklin’ by, half stifled by the grass,
Heaped over thick with buttercups, I saw the corncrake pass.
For ’twas Summer, Summer, SUMMER! An’ the blue forget-me-nots
Wiped out this dusty city and the smoky chimbley pots.
I clean forgot My Lady’s gown, the dazzlin’ sights I’ve seen;
I was back among the Cotswolds, where me heart has always been.

Then through the sixteen-acre on I went, a stiffish climb,
Right to the bridge, where all our sheep comes up at shearin’ time.
There was the wild briar roses hangin’ down so pink an’ sweet,
A-droppin’ o’ their fragrance on the clover at my feet
An’ here me heart stopped beatin’, for down by Gatcombe’s Wood
My lad was workin’ with his team, as only my lad could!

“COME BACK!” was what the tricklin’ brook an’ breezes seemed to say.

An’ back again I’m goin’ (for me wages has been paid,
An’ they’re lookin’ through the papers for another kitchen maid).
Back to the old grey homestead, an’ the uplands cool an’ green,
To my lad among the Cotswolds, where me heart has always been!

“A Song Of Home” by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

I am singing a song to the boys to-day,
A song of the home that is far away.
And I know that an echo the word is waking
In many a heart that is secretly aching,
Yes, almost breaking, thinking of Home, dear Home.
But thought, dear boys, is a carrier dove,
And it flies straight into the hearts you love.

You picture the days of your youthful joys,
The old home circle, the girls and boys
You knew in that wonderful world of pleasure,
When life danced on to a lilting measure;
Each scene you treasure, thinking of Home, dear Home.
And here is a thought that is sweet and true –
The ones you long for are longing for you.
You picture the day when the war is done,
The duty accomplished, the victory won,
And over the billows our ships go leaping,
Into our beautiful harbour sweeping,
And with laughter and weeping, you go back Home, Home, Home.
On the walls of your heart you must hang with care
This beautiful picture, framed in prayer.

Thinking of Home, you are blazing a trail
For that glorious day when our ships shall sail;
Where the Goddess of Liberty lights the water
To guide you back from the fields of slaughter,
Fair Freedom’s daughter, who welcomes us Home, Home, Home.
So hold your vision, and work and pray,
As you dream of the Home that is far away.

Chica joven con vestido rojo en zona boscosa y castillo medieval

“Sonnet: XIX.” by Charles Sangster

How my heart yearns towards my friends at home!
Poor suffering souls, whose lives are like the trees,
Bent, crushed, and broken in the storm of life!
A whirlwind of existence seems to roam
Through some poor hearts continually. These
Have neither rest nor pause; one day is rife
With tempest, and another dashed with gloom;
And the few rays of light that might illume
Their thorny path are drenched with tearful rain.
Yet these pure souls live not their lives in vain;
For they become as spiritual guides
And lights to others; rising with the tides
Of their full being into higher spheres,
Brighter and brighter still through all the coming years.

“Behind The Bars” by Edward Smyth Jones

I am a pilgrim far from home,
A wanderer like Mars,
And thought my wanderings ne’er should come,
So fixed behind the bars!

I left my sunny Southern home
Beneath the silver stars;
A northward path began to roam,
Not seeking prison bars.

I sought a higher, holier life,
Which never virtue mars;
But Fate had spun a net of strife
For me behind the bars!

My mother’s lowly thatched-roofed cot
My nobler senses jars;
And so I seek to aid her lot,
But not behind the bars!

‘Tis said, forsooth, the poet learns
Through sufferings and wars
To sing the song which deepest burns
Behind the prison bars!

Thus I resign myself to Fate,
Regardless of her scars;
For soon she’ll open wide the gate
For me behind the bars.

I plead to you, my fellow man,
For all who wear the tars;
To lend what little help you can
To us behind the bars.

O God, I breathe my prayer to Thee,
Who never sinner bars:
Set each immortal spirit free
Behind these prison bars!

“Home” by Anne Bronte

How brightly glistening in the sun
The woodland ivy plays!
While yonder beeches from their barks
Reflect his silver rays.

That sun surveys a lovely scene
From softly smiling skies;
And wildly through unnumbered trees
The wind of winter sighs:

Now loud, it thunders o’er my head,
And now in distance dies.
But give me back my barren hills
Where colder breezes rise;

Where scarce the scattered, stunted trees
Can yield an answering swell,
But where a wilderness of heath
Returns the sound as well.

For yonder garden, fair and wide,
With groves of evergreen,
Long winding walks, and borders trim,
And velvet lawns between;

Restore to me that little spot,
With grey walls compassed round,
Where knotted grass neglected lies,
And weeds usurp the ground.

Though all around this mansion high
Invites the foot to roam,
And though its halls are fair within
Oh, give me back my HOME!

Beautiful woman in a Victorian style.

“Algeria.” by Richard Hunter

Dolly’s home’s far away,
Far away in Algiers,
On the African coast,
She won’t see it for years.

But she whispers at night,
And her eyes fill with tears;
“How I wish–how I wish,
I were back in Algiers!”

“Home Song” by Duncan Campbell Scott

There is rain upon the window,
There is wind upon the tree;
The rain is slowly sobbing,
The wind is blowing free:
It bears my weary heart
To my own country.
I hear the whitethroat calling,
Hid in the hazel ring;
Deep in the misty hollows
I hear the sparrows sing;
I see the bloodroot starting,
All silvered with the spring.
I skirt the buried reed-beds,
In the starry solitude:
My snowshoes creak and whisper,
I have my ready blood.
I hear the lynx-club yelling
In the gaunt and shaggy wood.
I hear the wolf-tongued rapid
Howl in the rocky break;
Beyond the vines at the portage
I hear the trapper wake
His En roulant ma boulé
From the clear gloom of the lake.
O! take me back to the homestead,
To the great rooms warm and low,
Where the frost creeps on the casement,
When the year comes in with snow.
Give me, give me the old folk
Of the dear long ago.
Oh, land of the dusky balsam,
And the darling maple tree,
Where the cedar buds and berries,
And the pine grows strong and free!
My heart is weary and weary
For my own country.

“The Soldier” by John Clare

Home furthest off grows dearer from the way;
And when the army in the Indias lay
Friends’ letters coming from his native place
Were like old neighbours with their country face.
And every opportunity that came
Opened the sheet to gaze upon the name
Of that loved village where he left his sheep
For more contented peaceful folk to keep;
And friendly faces absent many a year
Would from such letters in his mind appear.
And when his pockets, chafing through the case,
Wore it quite out ere others took the place,
Right loath to be of company bereft
He kept the fragments while a bit was left.