STRAWMAN.
Just so.
That is a home, where five may dwell with ease,
Tho’ two would be a crowd, if enemies.
That is a home, where all your thoughts play free
As boys and girls about their father’s knee,
Where speech no sooner touches heart, than tongue
Darts back an answering harmony of song;
Where you may grow from flax-haired snowy-polled,
And not a soul take note that you grow old;
Where memories grow fairer as they fade,
Like far blue peaks beyond the forest glade.