 | The Stranger at the Gate |  |
I
'MID glad green miles of tillage
And fields where cattle graze,
A prosy little village,
You drowse away the days.
And fields where cattle graze,
A prosy little village,
You drowse away the days.
And yet—a wakeful glory
Clings round you as you doze;
One living lyric story
Makes music of your prose.
Clings round you as you doze;
One living lyric story
Makes music of your prose.
Here once, returning never,
The feet of song have trod;
And flashed—Oh, once forever!—
The singing Flame of God.
The feet of song have trod;
And flashed—Oh, once forever!—
The singing Flame of God.
| The Stranger at the Gate | |