 | The Stranger at the Gate |  |
XIII
'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.
37
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!
| The Stranger at the Gate | |