Classic Poem

Without a home at holy Christmas-tide,
Sad-hearted at the feast of all the year,
These were strange words you told me, Phoebe dear;
I have no social joys when all beside
Meet with such blessed mirth round happy fires.
When the long-parted greet and draw fresh love
From ceaseless flow of talk that never tires;
Through all the homes there is no place for me.
No place, no room; dear friend, if it can be
One thought of joy to you, then know
My heart grew larger at your words, as though
It would have answered, “Hearts are homes, look in and see.”
Yes, hearts are homes, and O! all hearts above,
There is a heart of hearts, a love of love,
A boundless home, one that for aye endures;
Hide in God's heart, beloved, that great Home is yours.