I WHOSE furthest footstep never strayed Beyond the village of his birth Is but a lodger for the night In this old wayside inn of earth. To-morrow he shall take his pack, And set out for the ways beyond On the old trail from star to star, An alien and a vagabond. II If any record of our names Be blown about the hills of time, Let no one sunder us in death, -- The man of paint, the men of rhyme. Of all our good, of all our bad, This one thing only is of worth, -- We held the league of heart to heart The only purpose of the earth. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...NEURASTENIA by AGNES MARY F. ROBINSON THE POET'S SONG by ALFRED TENNYSON THE BLACK PANTHER by JOHN HALL WHEELOCK THE BIRDS: THE BIRDS' LIFE by ARISTOPHANES THE WORD OF SUMMER by ELSA BARKER |