THE WANDERERS
A little church through dusty trees
Raised up its wooden spire,
One of religion’s purities
Amid our mortal mire,
And one there came to open door
Made timid by his sin,
Made timid by the mark he wore,
And dared not enter in.
The while he paused he heard a whir—
Beside him trembled down
Another outcast wanderer,
The swallow of the town.
It fluttered through the open place,
It mounted to the choir,
Within the simple house of grace
Poured forth its notes of fire.
And he who lonely lingered heard
And something fell away;
He followed after singing bird
Where sinners kneel to pray.
Yea, there the old remembrance died
And there the new began;
For soon they worshipped side by side—
The swallow and the man.