Kate Wheeler - Home Poems

The clover blossoms, pink and white and red,
Fill all the balmy air with perfume sweet;
The honey-suckle proudly bends it’s head
Close to the door-stone worn by many feet.

Where once a maiden slied a bit of green
Within her shoe, and there expectant stood,
To-day the self same “Grandma’s pride” is seen,—
A little bunch of fragrant southern-wood.

The low-eaved porch supports the clinging vine,
While thro’ the roof the summer rain-drops fall;
Upon the floor a rusty hook and line,
A well-worn bench and silence over all.

A well-sweep, overgrown with moss and mould,
Shelters a hornet’s nest within it’s nook;
Above the running waters clear and cold
An old tin dipper hangs upon it’s hook.

The dull-edged scythe swings idly in the sun,
A grindstone crumbles ’neath the maple’s shade;
A cart-wheel and the faded coat of one
Who long ago beneath the sod was laid.

Tho’ gone the smile of each familiar face
And merry voices break no more the calm,
Yet Memory sweet shall hallow all the place
And flood with peace the old deserted farm.

The celebrated Author pens
His thorough thoughts from depths of mind,
And they are not in proper place
Until the depths of our’s they find.

The wisest reader may perceive,
In writings that shall ever live,
A reflex of his own wise thoughts
That to the world he did not give;

But to the mind of him who learns,
They are as seeds of knowledge brought
That soon take root and rarefy
Into a whole great field of thought.

Life is a school for all mankind,
Where daily lessons are assigned
And each may do his best;
God is the Master who will teach
The truths that lie within our reach
And leave to us the rest.

Each has his proper place at start
And each can learn his little part
If earnestly he tries;
Altho’ his standard may be low,
He surely to the head will go
Who on himself relies.

Each has a chance among the rest
To do his worst or do his best
And his must be the choice,—
Either to break the golden rule
And cause confusion in life’s school,
Or heed the Master’s voice.

The discipline is not severe,
Altho’ the Master we should fear
To keep us from a wrong;
There is no need to sigh and fret,
Or to despair, with lashes wet,
Because our task seems long.

The lessons that so oft’ we spurn
We know that some time we must learn,
Then why should we delay?
He stays behind who is the dunce,
The wisest does his task at once
And goes upon his way.

The Master’s sympathy prevails
With him who tries altho’ he fails,
For He will help not chide;
When rest and honors have been won
He hears the Master say: “Well done,”
And he is satisfied.

Faith, the angel of my prayer,
Hope, to lighten every care,
Love, to lift life’s heavy yoke,
These the graces I invoke;
But the greatest of the three
Is the last—sweet charity.

The sunshine makes the flowers grow,
They cannot thrive in shade;
If naught but darkness did they know
Their brightness soon would fade.

Our lives require the sunlight’s glow,
They cannot thrive in gloom;
If naught but darkness did thy know
Bright hopes would never bloom.

The sunny smiles that make life bright
And bless the passing hours,
Will do for souls that need the light
What sunshine does for flowers.

Will it matter, by and by,
When he calls us each by name,
Whether you, or whether I,
Win earth’s honor and earth’s fame?

Onward, in the rush of life,
For the prizes of the race,
Shall we mingle in the strife
Crowding others out of place?

Shall we seek Ambition’s goal,
Where the earthly treasures stay,
Passing by some helpless soul
Who has lost the Heavenly way?

If no kindness we have shown,
Seeking to be first of all,
Shall we gain a “welcome home”
When we hear the Master’s call?

When life’s busy day is past,
Will He question you and me
Who was first, and who was last,
In the worldly victory?

If earth’s laurels we have won,
And Heaven’s glories are denied,
Shall we hear the words: “Well done,”
And our souls be satisfied?

Ere the prize we seek is gone,
And the triumph comes too late,
Love of fame shall urge us on
But the angels whisper:—“Wait.”

“Come and play with me,” he said;
And I saw his curly head
Peeping thro’ the fence below.
He was four and I was three
And he beckoned unto me
So I could not say him no.

“Come and live with me,” he said;
And I saw his manly head
Where the threads of silver grow.
He was passing forty-three
And he pleaded long with me
So I could not say him no.

When the work of day is over,
And the weary hours are past,
Home lights, gleaming in the distance,
Fill the soul with joy at last.

Tho’ the trials have been many,
And the world has proved unkind,
Lights of home make burdens lighter
And refresh the wearied mind.

Some one where the lights are shining,
Knows that you are very near;
Some one waits to bid you welcome,
And invites to rest and cheer.

Some one loves you; all life’s crosses,
Which have seemed so hard to bear,
Are forgiven and forgotten,
When you see the home lights fair.

Some one knows that you are weary,
Some one waits to clasp your hand;
Some one watches near the home lights,
Who will surely understand.

Footsteps falter now no longer
O’er the distant homeward way;
There’s a message in the home lights,
At the close of busy day.

When the work of life is over,
And the weary hours are past,
Home lights, in Eternal glory,
Satisfy the soul at last.

Tho’ earth’s trials have been many,
And the world unkind has been,
Lights of Home dispel life’s burdens,
Christ will bid you:—“Enter in.”

Some One, where the lights are shining,
Waits to give your soul release;
Some One waits to bid you welcome,
You shall find both rest and peace.

Some One loves you; all life’s crosses,
Which once seemed so hard to bear,
Are forgotten in the glory
Of the Christ, who greets you there.

Some One knows that you are weary,
Some One gently takes your hand;
Some One knows your every weakness,
He—the Christ—will understand.