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Ye've got t' weep t' make it home, ye've got t' sit and sigh An' watch beside a loved one's bed, an' know that Death is nigh; An' in the stillness o' the night t' see Death's angel come, An' close the eyes o' her that smiled, an' leave her sweet voice dumb. Fer these are scenes that grip the heart, an' when yer tears are dried, Ye find the home is dearer than it was, an' sanctified; An' tuggin' at ye always are the pleasant memories O' her that was an' is no more—ye can't escape from these. 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 f' make it home. Edgar A. Guest.

The House with Nobody In It

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Whenever I walk to Suffern along the Erie track

I go by a poor old farm-house with its shingles broken and black;

I suppose I've passed it a hundred times, but I always stop for a minute

And look at the house, the tragic house, the house with nobody in it.

I've never seen a haunted house, but I hear there are such things;

That they hold the talk of spirits, their mirth and sorrowings.

I know that house isn't haunted and I wish it were, I do,

For it wouldn't be so lonely if it had a ghost or two.

This house on the road to Suffern needs a dozen panes of glass,

And somebody ought to weed the walk and take a scythe to the grass.

It needs new paint and shingles and vines should be trimmed and tied,

But what it needs most of all is some people living inside.

If I had a bit of money and all my debts were paid,

I'd put a gang of men to work with brush and saw and spade.

I'd buy that place and fix it up the way that it used to be,

And I'd find some people who wanted a home and give it to them free.

Now a new home standing empty with staring window and door

Looks idle perhaps and foolish, like a hat on its block in the store,

But there's nothing mournful about it, it cannot be sad and lone

For the lack of something within it that it has never known.

But a house that has done what a house should do, a house that has sheltered life,

That has put its loving wooden arms around a man and his wife,

A house that has echoed a baby's laugh and helped up his stumbling feet,

Is the saddest sight, when it's left alone, that ever your eyes could meet.

So whenever I go to Suffern along the Erie track

I never go by the empty house without stopping and looking back,

Yet it hurts me to look at the crumbling roof and the shutters fallen apart,

For I can't help thinking the poor old house is a house with a broken heart.

Joyce Kilmer.

Color in the Wheat

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Like liquid gold the wheat field lies,

A marvel of yellow and russet and green,

That ripples and runs, that floats and flies,

With the subtle shadows, the change, the sheen,

That play in the golden hair of a girl—

A ripple of amber—a flare

Of light sweeping after—a curl

In the hollows like swirling feet

Of fairy waltzers, the colors run

To the western sun

Through the deeps of the ripening wheat.

Broad as the fleckless, soaring sky,

Mysterious, fair as the moon-led sea,

The vast plain flames on the dazzled eye

Under the fierce sun's alchemy.