Now a 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 green
Of an old-time tapestry.
And the light must fall with a fitful flare
On the logs in the lichened wall—
(Oh they must be trees where the squirrel’s shrill note
Once echoed the bluejay’s call.)
And the light will leap in the man’s dark eyes
From 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 afraid
Will be turned into nothingness
With the strength that comes from a tender word
And the warmth of a soft caress.
And the long-dreamed dreams of the un-lived days
Out over the rainbow’s rim—
They will be more real than the stuff of dreams
Through her wonderful faith in him.
And it’s this and that which the hearth gives back
In the glow of the crackling pine,
That endears the place to a man’s own soul
Till it’s somehow his inmost shrine.