Читать книгу The Path to Home - Edgar A. Guest - Страница 4

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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.

There is nothing so important as the mother's lullabies,

Filled with peace and sweet contentment, when the moon begins to rise—

Nothing real except the beauty and the calm upon her face

And the shouting of the children as they scamper round the place.

For the greatest of man's duties is to keep his loved ones glad

And to have his children glory in the father they have had.

So where'er a man may wander, and whatever be his care,

You'll find his soul still stretching to the home he left somewhere.

You'll find his dreams all tangled up with hollyhocks in bloom,

And the feet of little children that go racing through a room,

With the happy mother smiling as she watches them at play—

These are all in life that matter, when you've stripped the sham away.