Stands a white old house on the crest of a hill, Looking out on a sunrise sky, Where snow mountains vigil a western stream, While the ships of the world go by. Forest firs shadow this old-time house And forest flowers grow in the shade; An orchard and garden are standing by And steppingstone pathways are laid. In the old-time house are sturdy chairs And tables and beds and things; And toys and games and a trundle bed; -- Treasures to which memory clings. Rugs and counterpanes wrought by hand; Clocks and pictures and candlesticks, Books and tea things and linens quaint, Fireplaces builded of old red bricks. There is one who dwells in the white old house To keep its altar fires burning, To welcome and cheer the sons of men From the battles of life returning. From courts of justice and marts of trade Wherever they may roam, Men come in gladness or in grief, For the old-time house is "Home." |