The whitewash'd wall, the nicely sanded floor,
The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door;
The chest read more

The whitewash'd wall, the nicely sanded floor,
The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door;
The chest contriv'd a double debt to pay,
A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day.

The house of every one is to him as his castle and fortress, as
well for his defence against read more

The house of every one is to him as his castle and fortress, as
well for his defence against injury and violence, as for his
repose.

When the hornet hangs in the holly hock,
And the brown bee drones i' the rose,
And read more

When the hornet hangs in the holly hock,
And the brown bee drones i' the rose,
And the west is a red-streaked four-o'clock,
And summer is near its close--
It's--Oh, for the gate, and the locust lane;
And dusk, and dew, and home again!

A comfortable house is a great source of happiness. It ranks immediately after health and a good conscience.

A comfortable house is a great source of happiness. It ranks immediately after health and a good conscience.

He is the happiest, be he king or peasant, who finds peace in his home

He is the happiest, be he king or peasant, who finds peace in his home

Old homes! old hearts! Upon my soul forever
Their peace and gladness lie like tears and laughter.

Old homes! old hearts! Upon my soul forever
Their peace and gladness lie like tears and laughter.

There's nobody at home
But Jumping Joan,
And father and mother and I.

There's nobody at home
But Jumping Joan,
And father and mother and I.

My home is in Heaven. I\'m just traveling through this world.

My home is in Heaven. I\'m just traveling through this world.

Construed as turf, home just seems a provisional claim, a designation you make upon a place, not one it makes read more

Construed as turf, home just seems a provisional claim, a designation you make upon a place, not one it makes on you. A certain set of buildings, a glimpsed, smudged window-view across a schoolyard, a musty aroma sniffed behind a garage when you were a child, all of which come crowding in upon your latter-day senses -- those are pungent things and vivid, even consoling. But to me they are also inert and nostalgic and unlikely to connect you to the real, to that essence art can sometimes achieve, which is permanence.