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When I speak of home, I speak of the place where -- in default of a better -- those I love are gathered together; and if that place were a gypsy's tent, or a barn, I should call it by the same good name notwithstanding.
- Alas for him! who friendless and alone,
- Remote from parents and from brethren dwells;
- From him grief snatches every coming joy
- Ere it doth reach his lip. His restless thoughts
- Revert for ever to his father's halls,
- Where first to him the radiant sun unclos'd
- The gates of heav'n; where closer, day by day,
- Brothers and sisters, leagu'd in pastime sweet,
- Around each other twin'd the bonds of love.
Home is a place not only of strong affections, but of entire unreserve; it is life's undress rehearsal, its backroom, its dressing room, from which we go forth to more careful and guarded intercourse, leaving behind us much debris of cast-off and everyday clothing.
- Oh! be he king or subject, he's most blest,
- Who in his home finds happiness and peace.
It is a most miserable thing to feel ashamed of home.
It's a curious rite of passage, isn't it? Visit the old places. First you wonder how you lived so uncomplainingly in such cramped circumstances. The streets are narrower, the buildings smaller than you ever remembered. It's like coming back to Lilliput.
Going home must be like going to render an account.
The best part of a trip is coming home.
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