Page:The Book of the Homeless (New York, Charles Scribner's Sons, 1916).djvu/102

 I said: There are countries far from here Where the friendly church-bells call, And fields where the rivers run cool and clear, And streets where the weary may walk without fear, And a quiet bed, with a green tree near, To sleep at the end of it all.

She answered: Your land is too remote, And what if I chanced to roam When the bells fly back to the steeples' throat, And the sky with banners is all afloat. And the streets of my city rock like a boat With the tramp of her men come home?

I shall crouch by the door till the bolt is down, And then go in to my dead. Where my husband fell I will put a stone, And mother a child instead of my own. And stand and laugh on my bare hearth-stone When the King rides by, she said.