I am driven everywhere from a clinging home
I am driven everywhere from a clinging home,
O autumn eves! and I ween'd that you would yet
have made, when your smouldering dwindled to odorous fume,
close room for my heart, where I might crouch and dream
of days and ways I had trod, and look with regret
on the darkening homes of men and the window-gleam,
and forget the morrows that threat and the unknown way.
But a bitter wind came out of the yellow-pale west
and my heart is shaken and fill'd with its triumphing cry:
You shall find neither home nor rest; for ever you roam
with stars as they drift and wilful fates of the sky!
poem by Christopher John Brennan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
How Old is my heart, how old?
How old is my heart, how old, how old is my heart,
and did I ever go forth with song when the morn was new?
I seem to have trod on many ways: I seem to have left
I know not how many homes; and to leave each
was still to leave a portion of mine own heart,
of my old heart whose life I had spent to make that home
and all I had was regret, and a memory.
So I sit and muse in this wayside harbour and wait
till I hear the gathering cry of the ancient winds and again
I must up and out and leave the members of the hearth
to crumble silently into white ash and dust,
and see the road stretch bare and pale before me: again
my garment and my house shall be the enveloping winds
and my heart be fill'd wholly with their old pitiless cry.
poem by Christopher John Brennan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Home
Take me home
Send me on a ship
My life leaves me
Homesick
Home
I forget myself
Home
I cant let myself
Let myself go
Miss my baby bones
I know the way they felt
Ive been aching
For mothers milk
Home
I forget myself
Home
I cant let myself
Let myself go
And I wanna be only bereft
And I wanna get smartest in my heart
Somebody to cut what I cant chew
Fill me up like it fills the room
Got my big girl
Body and shoes
Sometimes lately
Its hard to choose
Home (cant let myself go)
I forget myself
Home (cant let myself go)
I cant let myself go
Home (cant let myself go)
I forget myself
Home (cant let myself go)
I cant let myself
Let myself
Let myself
Let myself
Let myself go.
song performed by by Heather Nova
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Home
Where is ones home,
As He passes through the corridor's of life
Is it the bed that He was born onto
Or the place, fate chose for him to die.
Where is home for the Sailor
Who sails the world upon a ship
Is home a port He has docked into
Or is home a well remembered crib.
Where youth was a friend and tomorrow a dream.
And sorrow and sadness was never seen.
Where is home for the woman
Who has had many different homes
Where is home for the drifter
Who loves nothing more to roam.
Where wishes are still alive and never to far
Where home is a dew drop, and sleep are the stars.
Where is home for the child
Who has lived many a childhood dream
Where is home for the prisoner
Who someday in life will be freed.
Home is many different things
Its a bedtime story or a childhood dream
A piece of a wall or a blushing wife
Or is it that hazy memory still never out of sight.
Home is not where you lay your bones
After a day of hardened work
Home is not even the place that you stay
When your feet have begun to hurt.
Home my friend it might not even be
The place where you currently do live
For home my friend is not just a word
But it is, where the heart is.....
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
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Find My Way
I don't know how to let you go
I've given to you all of me.
All that will ever be,
We share the same heart and soul
I want you to believe in me
See through my eyes and you will know
I'll take my chance that you will come home to me
Even if it takes some time for you to work it out
I'll be there.
I've still got a ways to go,
So far away from home.
Inside I always knew,
I'd Find My Way to you.
I've still got a ways to go,
So far away from home.
Inside I always knew,
I'd Find My Way to you.
If I could be everything you want
If I could change everything that I have done
Only you'd know where I have gone
I wanna prove I am worthy to be called yours
I need you more than I ever have
And I don't wanna stay, try to find me if you can
If I get lost along the way, please don't forget me
Know that I'll be here.
I've still got a ways to go,
So far away from home.
Inside I always knew,
I'd Find My Way to you.
I've still got a ways to go,
So far away from home.
Inside I always knew,
I'd Find My Way to you.
I'll be there, I'll be there
I'll be there, I'll be there
I'll be there, I'll be there
I'll be there, I'll be there
I've still got a ways to go,
So far away from home.
Inside I always knew,
I'd Find My Way to you.
I've still got a ways to go,
So far away from home.
Inside I always knew,
I'd Find My Way to you.
I'll be there, I'll be there
I'll be there, I'll be there
I'll be there, I'll be there
I'll be there, I'll be there
I'll Find My Way to you
song performed by by P.O.D.
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Swallows
O LITTLE hearts, beat home, beat home,
Here is no place to rest.
Night darkens on the falling foam
And on the fading west.
O little wings, beat home, beat home.
Love may no longer roam.
O, Love has touched the fields of wheat
And Love has crowned the corn,
And we must follow Love's white feet
Through all the ways of morn.
Through all the silver roads of air
We pass and have no care.
The silver roads of Love are wide,
O winds that turn, O stars that guide.
Sweet are the ways that Love has trod
Through the clear skies that reach to God.
But in the cliff-grass Love builds deep
A place where wandering wings may sleep.
poem by Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Light In A Window
There is a light in a window
that burns to show me the way.
Back to my home
when my wandering days are through.
My love she keeps it burning
though she is far away
to let me know
our love will never go astray.
One day I will find that window
on my travels around
and when I find it
then I’ll know I’ll be home.
A heart can be a careless thing
wanting to wander and stray,
but with a deep love within
at home it will always stay.
Therefore, if you have wanderlust
keep it at bay.
Never let yourself be driven
to wander away.
If you do not heed my words
and lost, you are to wander.
Remember there is
a light in a window somewhere.
poem by David Harris
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Homes Not a Home
Homes not a home without you
Homes not home without the ones you love
Homes not a home when one is missing
That missing one is the heart of the home
To to make the home a home again you go looking for them
in good weather or bad weather
You look all over town..
Screaming and shouting their name.
Making all kind of sounds
Hooting and a hollering.
and carring on.
just to make a point.
missing one, come home...
you are loved.
come home safe
return to us
a homes not a home with out you
you are unique
you are rare
Theres no one like you.
you, we can't replace..
come home come home
so home can be a home again.
Dedicated to carlos ortiz
poem by Krystal Vincent
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Home Is Where The Heart Is
(gary rossington -- johnny vanzant -- hughie thomasson -- rickey medlocke)
Ive always lived my life like a gypsy
I cant imagine myself settlin down
So please dont ask me to give up this life I lead
cause I love to feel those wheels go round and round
(chorus)
I can see it inside
Its my heart that sees, not my eyes
And if you listen close Ill tell you why
Home is where the heart is
And my heart is at home with you
Theres a cold wind blowin and you know its almost midnight
You never dreamed it would be this hard lovin a music man
But this iron horse on which I ride Im closer its true
And its just as hard for me as it is for you
I can see it inside
Its my heart that sees not my eyes
And if you listen close Ill tell you why
Home is where the heart is
And my heart is at home with you
In my life Im always on the run
Livin one day at a time
Hold on a little longer
I dont know where Im gonna end up
Or where Ill go
I can see it inside
Its my heart that sees not my eyes
And if you listen close Ill tell you why
Home is where the heart is
And my heart is at home ...
I can see it inside
Its my heart that sees not my eyes
And if you listen close Ill tell you why
Home is where the heart is
And my heart is at home with you
Home is where the heart is
Oh ,my home is where my heart is
Oh, my home is where my heart is
song performed by by Lynyrd Skynyrd
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Seeker
GOOD People, by your fires to-night
Sit close and praise the red, red wood!
The wind is cold, the moon is white;
With me who wander 'tis not well; it is not well, but God is good.
'Fore birth I was foredoomed to roam,
To keep my soul and self apart,
An alien without hearth and home —
With me who wander 'tis not well; there is no warmth of fire or heart.
I mate with all the wandering winds
That roam across the wintry earth;
What time behind your close-drawn blinds
Your firelit faces smile and smile, I would that I might share their
mirth.
But if I entered I should sit
A wordless dreamer at your fire;
With heart unwarmed and eyes unlit,
I should be like a spectre there, shut off from you and your desire.
And yet, I would that I might warm
My heart and hands at your fire-glow;
But headlong seas and shouting storm
They thrill my blood, they fill my eyes, they call me forth, and I must
go.
Good People, maids and dames and sires,
Ye have your little woe and mirth;
Ye dream no dream; but there are spires
That point to stars, and still point on in spite of this dark, drawing
earth.
It is not well with me to-night,
And I by that strange shore would be
Where, 'twist day's last grey gleam and night,
A Wonder wanes that I alone of all the world must seek and see.
What cliffs they be, what sea rolls there,
I do not know; but, spirit-chained,
Lost visions fill me with despair,
And all the washed grey foreland speaks of some strange Wonder that
has waned.
Good People, bread and wine are good,
And all your visions goodly be.
But some may crave for other food,
And some are seekers from their birth, and dream of lights they shall
not see.
And there is he who fain would find
A Wonder by an alien shore:
Athwart the seas he speeds his mind,
But on the instant fades a light, and lo, the Wonder is no more.
poem by Roderic Quinn
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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For Paul Celan
The stars of eternity stare into the darkness
Breathing nothingness that grows around
Orphaned black holes of silent despair in space
Your percolated wounds never could heal
By the doleful symphonies of a tormented élan.
You never recovered from the mass murders
To which you bear witness with anguished cenotaphs
Oh your yellow haired mother could not come home
She could not come home; her heart was torn by lead.
Blazing stars of frozen eternity shine at the moon frost
Slowly the late autumn opens an envelope of pain
It engulfs your lost world with charred pilgrims
Floating along latitudes of convulsive memories.
Your yellow haired mother could not come home
Her heart was torn by lead; she could not come home
Hot stars of cold eternity gleam in the lonely darkness
And black holes dance in the crumbling empty space
You yearn for faith, searching for a beam of hope.
poem by Paul Hartal
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Deus Misereatur
PLEASANT the ways whereon our feet were led,
Sweet the young hills, the valleys of content,
But now the hours of dew and dream have fled.
Lord, we are spent.
We did not heed Thy warning in the skies,
We have not heard Thy voice nor known Thy fold;
But now the world is darkening to our eyes.
Lord, we grow old.
Now the sweet stream turns bitter with our tears,
Now dies the star we followed in the west,
Now are we sad and ill at ease with years.
Lord, we would rest.
Lo, our proud lamps are emptied of their light,
Weary our hands to toil, our feet to roam;
Our day is past and swiftly falls Thy night.
Lord, lead us home.
poem by Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall
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The Home of My Heart
Not here in the populous town,
In the playhouse or mart,
Not here in the ways gray and brown,
Bnt afar on the green-swelling down,
Is the home of my heart.
There the hillside slopes down to a dell
Whence a streamlet has start;
There are woods and sweet grass on the swell,
And the south winds and west know it well:
‘Tis the home of my heart.
There’s a cottage o’ershadowed by leaves
Growing fairer than art,
Where under the low sloping eaves -
No false hand the swallow bereaves:
‘Tis the home of my heart.
And there as you gaze down the lea,
Where the trees stand apart,
Over grassland and woodland may be
You will catch the faint gleam of the sea
From the home of my heart.
And there In the rapturous spring,
When the morning rays dart
O’er the plain, and the morning birds sing,
You may see the most beautiful thing
In the home of my heart;
For there at the casement above,
Where the rosebushes part,
Will blush the fair face of my love:
Ah, yes I It is this that will prove
‘Tis the home of my heart.
poem by Francis William Bourdillon
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The Tower
One, from his high bright window in a tower,
Leans out, as evening falls,
And sees the advancing curtain of the shower
Splashing its silver on roofs and walls:
Sees how, swift as a shadow, it crosses the city,
And murmurs beyond far walls to the sea,
Leaving a glimmer of water in the dark canyons,
And silver falling from eave and tree.
One, from his high bright window, looking down,
Peers like a dreamer over the rain-bright town,
And thinks its towers are like a dream.
The western windows flame in the sun's last flare,
Pale roofs begin to gleam.
Looking down from a window high in a wall
He sees us all;
Lifting our pallid faces towards the rain,
Searching the sky, and going our ways again,
Standing in doorways, waiting under the trees . . .
There, in the high bright window he dreams, and sees
What we are blind to,-we who mass and crowd
From wall to wall in the darkening of a cloud.
The gulls drift slowly above the city of towers,
Over the roofs to the darkening sea they fly;
Night falls swiftly on an evening of rain.
The yellow lamps wink one by one again.
The towers reach higher and blacker against the sky.
poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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The House Of Dust: Part 01: 02: One, from his high bright window in a tower
One, from his high bright window in a tower,
Leans out, as evening falls,
And sees the advancing curtain of the shower
Splashing its silver on roofs and walls:
Sees how, swift as a shadow, it crosses the city,
And murmurs beyond far walls to the sea,
Leaving a glimmer of water in the dark canyons,
And silver falling from eave and tree.
One, from his high bright window, looking down,
Peers like a dreamer over the rain-bright town,
And thinks its towers are like a dream.
The western windows flame in the sun's last flare,
Pale roofs begin to gleam.
Looking down from a window high in a wall
He sees us all;
Lifting our pallid faces towards the rain,
Searching the sky, and going our ways again,
Standing in doorways, waiting under the trees . . .
There, in the high bright window he dreams, and sees
What we are blind to,—we who mass and crowd
From wall to wall in the darkening of a cloud.
The gulls drift slowly above the city of towers,
Over the roofs to the darkening sea they fly;
Night falls swiftly on an evening of rain.
The yellow lamps wink one by one again.
The towers reach higher and blacker against the sky.
poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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An Ode To Inspiration
Up above, Tchaikovsky's fluting notes are dancing,
And the empty paper waits for the first verse to be born.
While the screaming wind beats against the old window,
My thoughts are endlessly straying,
Looking for lost inspiration,
And they stray the ravines of my mind,
Like lost children searching for their dear mother,
Lost inspiration.
The heart is painfully echoing in a mute chest,
And the paper still waits for its dear tennants,
And it is as if the angry wind knows it too,
The wind that shakes the old window blinds
That painfully creak
Like the bones of an old dying man.
If I could,
I would sprinkle all roads with stars,
I would gild each stone with the rays of the sun,
If only inspiration could find its way to my home.
But how could I possibly greet it royally
In a room full of moisture, draft and smoke,
And the deafening echo of poverty,
As inspiration is royal by birth, after all.
There is grave silence down there,
And a magic harmony up there,
It is Tchaikovsky dispersing his magic notes
Down into my dark home,
As if he wants to provide a royal welcome for inspiration.
That blue shadow is watching me now,
As if saying:
'Inspiration is of royal birth,
You will find it in the dark, below a stone,
In the company of the darkest shadow,
At the very heart of loneliness;
You don't have to take the stars down from the sky for it,
Or bait it with gold
So it would find its home.
Giving in to your heart is enough, brother,
And inspiration shall find its home! ...'
poem by Walter William Safar
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The Dream: (For my Father)
Over and over again I dream a dream,
I am coming home to you in the starlit gloam;
Long was the day from you and sweet 'twill seem
The day is over and I am coming home.
Then I shall find you as in days long past,
Sitting so quietly in the firelight glow;
'Love,' you will say to me, 'you are come at last.'
Your eyes be glad of me as long ago.
All I have won since then will slip my hold,
Dear love and children, the long years away;
I shall come home to you the girl of old,
Glad to come home to you -- oh, glad to stay!
Often and often I am dreaming yet
Of the firelit window when I've crossed the hill
And I coming home to you from night and wet:
Often and often I am dreaming still.
Over and over again I dream my dream.
Ah, why would it haunt me if it wasn't true?
I am travelling home to you by the last red gleam,
In the quiet evening I am finding you.
poem by Katharine Tynan
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Blue Evening
My restless blood now lies a-quiver,
Knowing that always, exquisitely,
This April twilight on the river
Stirs anguish in the heart of me.
For the fast world in that rare glimmer
Puts on the witchery of a dream,
The straight grey buildings, richly dimmer,
The fiery windows, and the stream
With willows leaning quietly over,
The still ecstatic fading skies . . .
And all these, like a waiting lover,
Murmur and gleam, lift lustrous eyes,
Drift close to me, and sideways bending
Whisper delicious words.
But I
Stretch terrible hands, uncomprehending,
Shaken with love; and laugh; and cry.
My agony made the willows quiver;
I heard the knocking of my heart
Die loudly down the windless river,
I heard the pale skies fall apart,
And the shrill stars' unmeaning laughter,
And my voice with the vocal trees
Weeping. And Hatred followed after,
Shrilling madly down the breeze.
In peace from the wild heart of clamour,
A flower in moonlight, she was there,
Was rippling down white ways of glamour
Quietly laid on wave and air.
Her passing left no leaf a-quiver.
Pale flowers wreathed her white, white brows.
Her feet were silence on the river;
And "Hush!" she said, between the boughs.
poem by Rupert Brooke (1909)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Come Out, Come Out
Come out, come out, ye souls that serve, why will ye die?
or will ye sit and stifle in your prison-homes
dreaming of some master that holds the winds in leash
and the waves of darkness yonder in the gaunt hollow of night?
nay, there is none that rules: all is a strife of the winds
and the night shall billow in storm full oft ere all be done.
For this is the hard doom that is laid on all of you,
to be that whereof ye dream, dreaming against your will.
But first ye must travel the many ways, and your close-wrapt souls
must be blown thro' with the rain that comes from the homeless dark:
for until ye have had care of the wastes there shall be no truce
for them nor you, nor home, but ever the ancient feud;
and the soul of man must house the cry of the darkling waves
as he follows the ridge above the waters shuddering to-wards night,
and the rains and the winds that roam anhunger'd for some heart's warmth.
Go: tho' ye find it bitter, yet must ye be bare
to the wind and the sea and the night and the wail of birds in the sky;
go: tho' the going be hard and the goal blinded with rain
yet the staying is a death that is never soften'd with sleep.
poem by Christopher John Brennan
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The Last Reservation
Sullen and dull, in the September day,
On the bank of the river,
They waited the boat that should bear them away
From their poor homes forever.
For progress strides on, and the order had gone
To these wards of the nation:
'Give us land and more room,' was the cry, 'and move on
To the next reservation.'
With her babe, she looked back at her home 'neath the trees
From which they were driven,
Where the last camp-fire's smoke, borne out on the breeze,
Rose slowly toward heaven.
Behind her, fair fields, and the forest and glade,
The home of her nation;
Around her, the gleam of the bayonet and blade
Of civilization.
Clasping close to her bosom the small dusky form
With tender caressing,
She bent down, on the cheek of her babe soft and warm
A mother's kiss pressing.
A splash in the river--the column moves on
Close-guarded and narrow,
Noting as little as the two that are gone
As the fall of a sparrow.
Only an Indian! Wretched, obscure,
To refinement a stranger,
And a babe, that was born in a wigwam as poor
And rude as a manger.
Moved on--to make room for the growth in the West
Of a brave Christian nation,
Moved on--thank God, forever at rest
In the last reservation.
poem by Walter Learned
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The Camp Within the West
O DID you see a troop go by
Way-weary and oppressed,
Dead kisses on the drooping lip
And a dead heart in the breast?
Yea, I have seen them one by one
Way-weary and oppressed,
And when I asked them, ‘Whither speed?’
They answered, ‘To the West!’
And were they pale as pale could be—
Death-pale with haunted eyes,
And did you see the hot white dust
Range round their feet and rise?
Oh, they were pale as pale could be,
And pale as an embered leaf;
The hot white dust had risen, but
They laid it with their grief.
Did no one say the way is long,
And crave a little rest?
Oh no, they said, ‘The night is nigh,
Our camp is in the West!’
And did pain pierce their feet, as though
The way with thorns were set,
And were they visited by strange
Dark angels of regret?
Oh yea, and some were mute as death,
Though shot by many a dart,
With them the salt of inward tears
Went stinging through the heart.
And how are these wayfarers called,
And whither do they wend?
The Weary-Hearted—and their road
At sunset hath and end.
Shed tears for them…Nay, nay, no tears!
They yearn for endless rest;
Perhaps large stars will burn above
Their camp within the West.
poem by Roderic Quinn
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