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...WIND AND WINDOW FLOWER by ROBERT FROST REMEMBERING NAT TURNER by STERLING ALLEN BROWN TO THE SMALL CELANDINE (1) by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH WRITTEN ON THE LEAVES OF A FAN by FRANCIS ATTERBURY A COLD TEMPERAMENT by WILLIAM ROSE BENET A DISMISSAL by LOUISA SARAH BEVINGTON |