To the Little House

by Christoper Morley

 

Dear little house, dear shabby street,

Dear little books and bed and food to eat!

How feeble words are to express

The facets of your tenderness.

 

How white the sun comes through the pane!

In tinkling music drips of rain!

How burning bright the furnace glows!

What paths to shovel when it snows!

 

O dearly loved Long Island trains!

O well remembered joys and pains,

How near the housetops Beauty leans

Along that little street in Queens!

 

Let these poor rhymes abide for proof

Joy dwells beneath a humble roof;

Heaven is not built of country seats

But little queer suburban streets! 

 

This little poem in one of our readers rang so true.  Nearly half the homes I have lived in (and there have been 22 now) have now been demolished.  Most were quirky. Modest. Like the before's in the house flipping shows.  I have the fondest memories of them and the life lived in those odd little houses. No amount of decor makes for joy. The children are oblivious to the design anyway.  It's in the living and the outlook. They will remember how they felt there.