It takes a heap o' livin' in
a house t' make it home,
A heap o' sun an' shadder,
an' ye sometimes have t' roam
Afore ye really 'preciate
the thing ye lef' behind,
An' hunger fer 'em somehow
with 'em allus on yer mind.
It don't make any difference
how rich ye get t' be,
How much yer chairs an' tables cost,
how great yer luxury,
It ain't home t' ye, though it be
the palace of a king,
Until somehow yer soul is
sort o' wrapped 'round everything.
Home ain't a place that gold can buy
or get up in a minute;
Afore it's home there's got t' be
a heap o' livin' in it;
Within the walls there's got t' be
some babies born, and then
Right there ye've got t' bring 'em up
t' women good, an' men;
And gradjerly, as time goes on,
ye find ye wouldn't part
With anything they ever used-
they've grown into yer heart:
The old high chairs, the playthings, too,
The little shoes they wore
Ye hoard: an' if ye could ye'd keep
the thumbmarks on the door.
Ye've got t' sing and dance fer years,
ye've got t' romp an' play,
An' learn't love the things ye have
by usin' 'em each day;
Even the roses 'round the porch
must blossom year by year
Afore they 'come a part o' ye,
Suggestin' someone dear
Who used t' love 'em long ago,
an' trained 'em jes' t' run
The way they do, so's they would
get the early mornin' sun:
Ye've got t' love each brick an' stone
from cellar up t' dome;
It takes a heap o' livin'
in a house to make it home.
Edgar A. Guest
