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The
crowning loveliness of vale
and hill,
In wind-blown groves, or
gardens banked with flowers,
Our homes rise stately,
monumental, still,
Something to cling to in
confusing hours.
A hundred
thousand homes seem to wait,
When sunset falls in amber,
gray or rose;
Their gleaming lamps, like
beacon lights, translate
The restful welcome, home
alone bestows.
And we are
thankful when in memory's
pride,
Our homes keep faith with
their traditional lore;
To these loved hearths at
close of evening tide,
We turn our grateful,
longing thoughts once more.
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