I don't like much poetry but I like this one.
THE STRANGER
THE Stranger within my gate,
Â*Â*Â*Â*He may be true or kind,
But he does not talk my talk —
Â*Â*Â*Â*I cannot feel his mind.
I see the face and the eyes and the mouth,
Â*Â*Â*Â*But not the soul behind.
The men of my own stock
Â*Â*Â*Â*They may do ill or well,
But they tell the lies I am wonted to,
Â*Â*Â*Â*They are used to the lies I tell.
And we do not need interpreters
Â*Â*Â*Â*When we go to buy and sell.
The Stranger within my gates,
Â*Â*Â*Â*He may be evil or good,
But I cannot tell what powers control —
Â*Â*Â*Â*What reasons sway his mood;
Nor when the Gods of his far-off land
Â*Â*Â*Â*Shall repossess his blood.
The men of my own stock,
Â*Â*Â*Â*Bitter bad they may be,
But, at least, they hear the things I hear,
Â*Â*Â*Â*And see the things I see;
And whatever I think of them and their likes
Â*Â*Â*Â*They think of the likes of me.
This was my father's belief
Â*Â*Â*Â*And this is also mine:
Let the corn be all one sheaf —
Â*Â*Â*Â*And the grapes be all one vine,
Ere our children's teeth are set on edge
Â*Â*Â*Â*By bitter bread and wine.
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