There fared a mother driven forth
Out of an inn to roam;
In the place where she was homeless
All men are at home…
For men are homesick in their homes,
And strangers under the sun,
And they lay their heads in a foreign land
Whenever the day is done…
This world is wild as an old wives’ tale,
And strange the plain things are.
The earth is enough and the air is enough
For our wonder and our war;
But our rest is as far as the fire-drake swings
And our peace is put in impossible things…
To an open house in the evening
Home shall men come,
To an older place than Eden
And a taller town than Rome.
To the end of the way of the wandering star,
To the things that cannot be and that are…
—The House of Christmas, G.K. Chesterton
By cool Siloam shady rill
How sweet the lily grows!
How sweet the breath beneath the hill
Of Sharon’s dewy rose!…
By cool Siloam’s shady rill
The lily must decay;
The rose that blooms beneath the hill
Must shortly fade away.
And soon, too soon, the wintry hour
Of man’s mature age
Will shake the soul with sorrow’s power
And stormy passion rage…
—By Cool Siloam’s Shady Rill, Reginald Heber
Work! That makes the red blood glow
Work! That makes the quick brain grow.
Plough and hammer, hoe and flails,
Axe and crowbar, saw and nails–
A splitter of rails,
Lincoln was never a snob or shirk,
Thank God for work!
Toil that binds mankind together,
Day by day in every weather.
Pen and distaff, needle and thread,
Vision of wonder over her head,
A toiler for bread,
Joan of Arc was a peasant child
On whom God smiled.
Labor that God Himself has blest,
Honest endeavor that earns good rest,
Bench and hammer, nails and cord,
Hammer and chisel, plane and board–
Christ our Lord
Had a carpenter’s horny hands,
—Work, Abbie Farrell Brown