Friday, April 24, 2015


"Home" By Edgar Albert Guest

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 things ye lef’ behind,
An’ hunger fer ’em somehow, with ’em allus on yer mind.
It don’t make any differunce 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’ weep t’ make it home, ye’ve got t’ sit an’ 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 an’ 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 t’ make it home.

My Favorite poem by-  Edgar Albert Guest

 Little Update, I'm waiting to see if the gallbladder surgery is still on for next week. The doctors and the Anesthesioloigist are putting their heads together as I write this. Will Update more later. Hope all has a nice weekend. God Bless, ~Susie


  1. It is a wonderful poem, Susie; I can see why it would be your favorite. Praying that God will direct the doctors in the thing(s) you need most.

  2. Susie, This is a poet I have never read before...but oh the meaning in it rings so true. I hope you get to have your surgery so you can start getting well. I had my gallbladder out by one of those suction thingys. Hope yours goes that well. I will have you in my prayers. Be safe, love you, Susie

    1. Thanks Susie. He's an old poet from way back. That's the way they're gonna do mine but they're scared to put me to sleep right now while I'm in this Thyroid Storm. Thanks for the prayers. love you too.

  3. Thanks for sharing this poem, Susie. It's a nice one. I hope you find out soon about your surgery and that it makes you feel better soon.

  4. I had Gallbladder surgery last year. Amazing how much better I've felt since I had it. Hope you get to have that surgery soon. Keep us posted.

    Great poem. HOME is something we all probably think of often. The people who bought our home-place have renovated it to the point that I can barely recognize it... Kinda sad--but at least, someone is taking good care of it.


    1. Thanks Betsy. Everyone has told me they feel a lot better. i'm in need of it badly. My old homeplace is the same. It's so sad looking. Hugs, xo

  5. Oh Susie, I love "it takes a heap of living in a house to make it home." My new home has lots of living in yet, but I will be sure give it lots of love and make it the best home I can. I just love your poems, they are so delightful. "Even the roses round the porch"......I love that one too.

    Have a wonderful week, Susie.

    love, ~Sheri

  6. Oh, Susie, I love the photo and this poem. It is so very true. It does take a lot of living to make a house a home. Thanks for sharing this heart-warming poem.