Classic Poem

My little friend, 't is a stormy day,
But we are left together;
I to listen, and thou to play;
So we 'll not heed the weather,
The clouds may rise and the tempest come;
The winds and the rain may beat:
With thee to gently play ‘Sweet Home,’
I feel that home is sweet!

The yellow leaf, from the shivering tree,
On Autumn's blast is flying;
But a spirit of life enshrined in thee,
While all abroad is dying,
Calls up the shadows of many a year
With their joys that were bright as brief;
And, if perchance it start the tear,
'T is not the tear of grief.

'T is a hallowed offering of the soul,
From her purest fountain gushing;
A warm, bright gift, that has spurned control,
To the eye for freedom rushing;
As music's angel, hovering near
To touch the tender key,
The numbers of a higher sphere
Is pouring forth from thee.

And while his powerful, magic hand
O'er memory's chords is sweeping,
To wake and bring from the spirit-land
The things that else were sleeping—
It lifts my thoughts to a world to come,
Where those parted here shall meet,
From the storms of life secure at home,
And sing, that home is sweet!

My little friend, 't is a stormy day,
But we are left together;
I to listen, and thou to play;
So we 'll not heed the weather,
The clouds may rise and the tempest come;
The winds and the rain may beat:
With thee to gently play ‘Sweet Home,’
I feel that home is sweet!

The yellow leaf, from the shivering tree,
On Autumn's blast is flying;
But a spirit of life enshrined in thee,
While all abroad is dying,
Calls up the shadows of many a year
With their joys that were bright as brief;
And, if perchance it start the tear,
'T is not the tear of grief.

'T is a hallowed offering of the soul,
From her purest fountain gushing;
A warm, bright gift, that has spurned control,
To the eye for freedom rushing;
As music's angel, hovering near
To touch the tender key,
The numbers of a higher sphere
Is pouring forth from thee.

And while his powerful, magic hand
O'er memory's chords is sweeping,
To wake and bring from the spirit-land
The things that else were sleeping—
It lifts my thoughts to a world to come,
Where those parted here shall meet,
From the storms of life secure at home,
And sing, that home is sweet!