| Home Making |
Chapter 9 |
Page 11 |
Or perhaps it was not a child that ides, but one who had lived to grow into all the life of the home and become its inspiration. The sorrow is not the same; the sense of loss is different. The longer we have had the loved ones in our clasp, the more is there to remember, the more touches are there left on the things about us to stir our hearts when we come upon them.
Or it may not have been in bereavement that the sorrow came. Ah! There are griefs worse than those which death causes. There are losses that leave a blacker blank than when the coffin lid shuts down on the face and the grass grows green over the grave of one whom we shall see no more in this world.
It needs no skillful hand to touch and awaken the memories of sorrow in almost every home. Sometimes the whole household life has been changed into a tone of sadness by a grief bitterer than is common. Sometimes it has been a gentler stoke that has fallen, and the effect is only a deepening of seriousness and thoughtfulness, a softening of the tones of speech, a growing tenderness in all the intercourse. But sooner or later the music of every home must have its minor chords. There is a picture that is laid away. There is a vacant chair. There is a wreath of immortelles sacredly kept under glass. There are mementoes of one who comes no more. There are songs that when sung choke every voice because they were favorites of one whose face is seen no more in the circle. There are books whose pages have a language for the heart not printed in words. There are places and scenes which bring up a thousand sacred memories. Thus Whittier sings of the losses in the home:
“How strange it seems, with so much gone
Of life and love, to still live on!
Ah, brother! Only I and thou
Are left of all that circle now,–
The dear home faces whereupon
That fitful firelight paled and shone.
Henceforward, listen as we will,
The voices of that hearth are still;
Look where we may, the wide earth o’er,
Those lighted faces smile no more.
We tread the paths their feet have worn,
We sit beneath their orchard trees,
We hear, like them, the hum of bees
And rustle of the bladed corn;
We turn the pages that they read,
Their written words we linger o’er,
But in the sun they cast no shade,
No voice is heard, no sign is made,
No step in on the conscious floor.”
Page 11
<< Prior Page 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 Next Page >>