Quotes About Home

So lived these two fathers, often meeting to take counsel about their common concerns. On the day we are speaking of, it had been determined to send Wilhelm out from home, for the despatch of some commercial affairs.

Da wo wir lieben, ist Vaterland; wo wit geniessen, ist Hof und Haus.

Der ist am glücklichsten, er sei Ein König oder ein Geringer, dem In seinem Hause Wohl bereitet ist.

No necesitamos lazos ni bonitos vestidos, tan sólo necesitan encontrar un hogar, y recibir la sonrisa o el abrazo de un ser querido.

Heidi loudly wailed, "Oh I want to go home. What the poor snowhopper will do without me? Grandmother is waiting for me everyday. Poor Thistlefinch gets blows if Peter gets no cheese, and I must see the sun again when he says good-night to the mountains. How the eagle would screech if he saw all the people here in Frankfurt.

Advertencia para idiotas. Pero a todo aquel que sea demasiado estúpido para comprender la ciencia astronómica, o demasiado pusilánime para creer a Copérnico sin que afecte a su fe, le aconsejaría que, una vez renunciado a los estudios astronómicos, y tras haber condenado todos aquellos estudios filosóficos que le plazca, se preocupe de sus asuntos y se vaya a su casa a escarbar su terruño

This holiday season has taught me the value of presence over presents. It is good to be home.

I pray Heaven to bestow the best of blessings on this house and all that shall hereafter inhabit it. May none but honest and wise men ever rule under this roof.

A child enters your home and for the next twenty years makes so much noise you can hardly stand it. The child departs, leaving the house so silent you think you are going mad.

The dumpling-eaters are a race sprung partly from the old Epicurean and partly from the Peripatetic Sect; they were first brought into Britain by Julius Caesar; and finding it a Land of Plenty, they wisely resolved never to go home again.

Just keep playing, mastering as you do the step Into disorder this one meant. Don't you see It's all we can do? Meanwhile, great fires Arise, as of haystacks aflame. The dial has been set And that's ominous, but all your graciousness in living Conspires with it, now that this is our home: A place to be from, and have people ask about.

He loved to eat candy while he read, and lots of his favorite books at home had brown smudges on the corners of the pages.

Sorrel soup: "You cut the egg into slices, and you eat it with the green soup. And the mixture of the sharp green acidity and the round comfort of the egg reminds you of something extraordinary and far away. Of home? Certainly not, not even for Poles. Of what then? ...Of survival, perhaps.

Your lips, beloved, are like a honeycomb: honey and milk are under the tongue. And the smell of your clothes is like the smell of my home.

All souls converge upon a hopeless mote tonight, as though the throngs of souls in hopeless pain rise up to say they cannot care, to say they abide whatever is to come. My air is flung with souls which will not stop and among them hangs a soul that has not died and refuses to come home.

Sometimes, coming home in the early morning like this, I'd imagine things had altered while I was absent: a knife on the bread board that I didn't remember leaving out, a book face down on the table, a cup brimming with tea and dishwater in the sink. The evidence I wanted didn't need to be too elaborate or detailed. I could have constructed an entire afterlife from a half-moon of lemon rind or a small blister of jam on the tablecloth.

I always feel at home where the sugar maple grows.... glorious in autumn, a fountain of coolness in summer, sugar in its veins, gold in its foliage, warmth in its fibers, and health in it the year round.

for Nazareth was ordained to be Christ's home, so that he might bear the name of Nazarene which was rightly his.

Novels are about men and women and children and dogs, not politics.

Lover of swampsThe quagmire overgrownWith hassock tufts of sedge—where fear encampsAround thy home aloneThe trembling grassQuakes from the human footNor bears the weight of man to let him passWhere he alone and muteSitteth at rest

Say maiden wilt thou go with meIn this strange death of life-to-beTo live in death and be the sameWithout this life or home or nameAt once to be and not to be

And this is good old Boston,The home of the bean and the cod,Where the Lowells talk to the CabotsAnd the Cabots talk only to God.

He was just a boy wearing pajamas, one slipper, and an old blue dressing gown under a stranger's jacket, and he did not belong anywhere but in his own bedroom.

There were books everywhere: on the floors, on the stairs, on furniture both built for that purpose and constructed for other ends entirely. There were bookshelves in the main hallway, in the downstairs rooms, and in the upstairs rooms. There were even bookshelves in the bathroom and the kitchen.