Ye hoard; an’ if ye could ye’d keep the thumbmarks on the door. 
  Ye’ve got t’ weep t’ make it home, ye’ve got t’ sit an’ sigh
  An’ watch beside a loved one’s bed, an’ know that Death is nigh;
  An’ in the stillness o’ the night t’ see Death’s angel come,
  An’ close the eyes o’ her that smiled, an’ leave her sweet voice dumb. 
  Fer these are scenes that grip the heart, an’ when yer tears are dried,
  Ye find the home is dearer than it was, an’ sanctified;
  An’ tuggin’ at ye always are the pleasant memories
  O’ her that was an’ is no more—­ye can’t escape from these.

  Ye’ve got t’ sing an’ dance fer years, ye’ve got t’ romp an’ play,
  An’ learn t’ love the things ye have by usin’ ’em each day;
  Even the roses ’round the porch must blossom year by year
  Afore they ‘come a part o’ ye, suggestin’ someone dear
  Who used t’ love ’em long ago, an’ trained ’em jes’ t’ run
  The way they do, so’s they would get the early mornin’ sun;
  Ye’ve got t’ love each brick an’ stone from cellar up t’ dome: 
  It takes a heap o’ livin’ in a house t’ make it home.

[From “A Heap o’ Livin’"]