The Path to Home
THERE'S the mother at the doorway, and the children at the
gate,
And the little parlor windows with the curtains white and
straight.
There are shaggy asters blooming in the bed that lines the
fence,
And the simplest of the blossoms seems of mighty
consequence.
Oh, there isn't any mansion underneath God's starry dome
That can rest a weary pilgrim like the little place called
home.
Men have sought for gold and silver; men have dreamed at
night of fame;
In the heat of youth they've struggled for achievement's
honored name;
But the selfish crowns are tinsel, and their shining jewels
paste,
And the wine of pomp and glory soon grows bitter to the
taste.
For there's never any laughter howsoever far you roam,
Like the laughter of the loved ones in the happiness of
home.
-
Edgar Albert Guest
