‘Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron bars a cage!’
Yes, that is true; and something more
You’ll find, where’er you roam,
That marble floors and gilded walls
Can never make a home.
But every house where Love abides,
And Friendship is a guest,
Is surely home, and home-sweet-home:
For there the heart can rest.
Similar Posts
When down the stair at morning
Sweet rivulets of laughterAre bubbling in her throat;The gladness of her greetingIs gold without alloy;And in the morning sunlightI think her name is Joy.When in the evening twilightThe quiet book-room lies,We read the sad old ballads,While from her hidden eyesThe tears are falling, falling,That give her heart relief;And in the evening twilight,I think her name…
‘The worlds in which we live are two
The worlds in which we live at heart are one,The world ‘I am,’ the fruit of ‘I have done’;And underneath these worlds of flower and fruit,The world ‘I love,’–the only living root.
I
Of pure philosophy and tranquil song;Born to behold the visions that belongTo those who dwell in melody and light;Milton, thou spirit delicate and bright!What drew thee down to join the Roundhead throngOf iron-sided warriors, rude and strong,Fighting for freedom in a world half night?Lover of Liberty at heart wast thou,Above all beauty bright, all music…
All the trees are sleeping, all the winds are still,
Through the noonday silence, down the woods of June,Hark, a little hunter’s voice comes running with a tune.‘Hide and seek!‘When I speak,‘You must answer me:‘Call again,‘Merry men,‘Coo-ee, coo-ee, coo-ee!’Now I hear his footsteps, rustling through the grass:Hidden in my leafy nook, shall I let him pass?Just a low, soft whistle,–quick the hunter turns,Leaps upon me…
(Presbyter of Christ in Americas 1683-1708)
We bring the meed of praise too long delayed!Thy fearless word and faithful work have madeFor God’s Republic firmer path and placeIn this New World: thou hast proclaimed the graceAnd power of Christ in many a forest glade,Teaching the truth that leaves men unafraidOf frowning tyranny or death’s dark face.Oh, who can tell how much…
If all the skies were sunshine,
To feel once more upon themThe cooling splash of rain.If all the world were music,Our hearts would often longFor one sweet strain of silence,To break the endless song.If life were always merry,Our souls would seek relief,And rest from weary laughterIn the quiet arms of grief.