Are music round the household eaves;
To him that sound hath sorrow’s tone—
The stranger’s heart is with his own.
Thou think’st the children’s laughing play
A lovely sight at fall of day;
Then are the stranger’s thoughts opprest—
A mother’s voice comes o’er his breast.
Thou think’st it sweet when friend to friend
Beneath one roof in prayer may blend;
Then doth the stranger’s eye grow dim—