The stranger within my gates,
He may be ill or good,
But I cannot tell what powers control,
What reasons sway his mood.
Nor when the Gods of his far off land shall repossess his blood.
The men of my own stock,
Bitter bad they may be,
But, at least, they hear the things I hear,
And see the things I see;
And whatever I think of them and their likes
They think of the likes of me.
This was my father's belief, and this is also mine.
Let the corn be all one sheaf-
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