Classic Poem

There is a truth that travel brings,
A truth of homely birth;
We dwell among familiar things,
And little know their worth.
The emigrant in distant lands,
The sailor on the sea,
For all that, round us, silent stands,
Have deeper hearts than we.

We dwell among familiar things;
And daily, with dull sight,
We touch a thousand secret springs
Of sorrow and delight:
Delight and reverential bliss
To those who, exiled far,
Stretch dreaming arms to clasp and kiss
Each little household star.

We dwell among familiar things;
We know them by their use;
And, by their many minist'rings,
Their value we deduce:
Forgetful each has had an eye,
And each can speak, though dumb;
And, of the ghostly days gone by,
Strange witness might become.

We dwell among familiar things;
But should it be our lot
To sever all the binding-strings
That form the household knot;
To wander upon alien mould,
And cross the restless foam;—
Now clearly should we then behold
The Deities of Home!