by Edgar A. Guest (Author)

There's the mother at the doorway, and the children at the gate, And the little parlor windows with the curtains white and straight. There are shaggy asters blooming in the bed that lines the fence, And the simplest of the blossoms seems of mighty consequence. Oh, there isn't any mansion underneath God's starry dome That can rest a weary pilgrim like the little place called home.

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