PEOPLE AND THINGS
Nowa man’s true heart is his home, I think,And the hearth with the crackling pine,With the leaping flames and the glowing stones,Is somehow its inmost shrine.And the stones must come from the river’s bed—Softly colorful must they be,Like the long-dulled rose and the faded greenOf an old-time tapestry.And the light must fall with a fitful flareOn the logs in the lichened wall—(Oh they must be trees where the squirrel’s shrill noteOnce echoed the bluejay’s call.)And the light will leap in the man’s dark eyesFrom the flash of each burning brand,And the man will know from its quickening touch,The where of a woman’s hand.And the fears that weighed till he grew afraidWill be turned into nothingnessWith the strength that comes from a tender wordAnd the warmth of a soft caress.And the long-dreamed dreams of the un-lived daysOut over the rainbow’s rim—They will be more real than the stuff of dreamsThrough her wonderful faith in him.And it’s this and that which the hearth gives backIn the glow of the crackling pine,That endears the place to a man’s own soulTill it’s somehow his inmost shrine.
Nowa man’s true heart is his home, I think,And the hearth with the crackling pine,With the leaping flames and the glowing stones,Is somehow its inmost shrine.And the stones must come from the river’s bed—Softly colorful must they be,Like the long-dulled rose and the faded greenOf an old-time tapestry.And the light must fall with a fitful flareOn the logs in the lichened wall—(Oh they must be trees where the squirrel’s shrill noteOnce echoed the bluejay’s call.)And the light will leap in the man’s dark eyesFrom the flash of each burning brand,And the man will know from its quickening touch,The where of a woman’s hand.And the fears that weighed till he grew afraidWill be turned into nothingnessWith the strength that comes from a tender wordAnd the warmth of a soft caress.And the long-dreamed dreams of the un-lived daysOut over the rainbow’s rim—They will be more real than the stuff of dreamsThrough her wonderful faith in him.And it’s this and that which the hearth gives backIn the glow of the crackling pine,That endears the place to a man’s own soulTill it’s somehow his inmost shrine.
Nowa man’s true heart is his home, I think,And the hearth with the crackling pine,With the leaping flames and the glowing stones,Is somehow its inmost shrine.
And the stones must come from the river’s bed—Softly colorful must they be,Like the long-dulled rose and the faded greenOf an old-time tapestry.
And the light must fall with a fitful flareOn the logs in the lichened wall—(Oh they must be trees where the squirrel’s shrill noteOnce echoed the bluejay’s call.)
And the light will leap in the man’s dark eyesFrom the flash of each burning brand,And the man will know from its quickening touch,The where of a woman’s hand.
And the fears that weighed till he grew afraidWill be turned into nothingnessWith the strength that comes from a tender wordAnd the warmth of a soft caress.
And the long-dreamed dreams of the un-lived daysOut over the rainbow’s rim—They will be more real than the stuff of dreamsThrough her wonderful faith in him.
And it’s this and that which the hearth gives backIn the glow of the crackling pine,That endears the place to a man’s own soulTill it’s somehow his inmost shrine.