VII
“High in the purple mountains,
Where the world’s strife cannot come,
Ringed by the iron cordon
Of the hills that guard my home,
I gather my sons about me
And teach them at my knee,
And when they have learned their lesson,
My sons go forth from me.
Over the world they wander,
In the sunshine and wind and storm,
But I sit here in the quiet room
And keep the hearthstone warm;
Watching and listening and waiting
For their footsteps at the door,
Till one by one as the years go by
My sons come home once more.
Then I fling wide the portal
And welcome them to the hall,
With praise for the strong, and pity
For the weak, and love for all.
And the welcome that I give them
Is reward for those that win;
And they who are spent with fighting
Find a new strength therein.
And when they have told their stories,
And rested a little space,
They rise, and get them forth again
Each man to his own place;
To take the task that waits him,
And labor to the end,
That he may earn a living
For wife and child and friend.
Careless of sneers and frowning
From curs that cringe and shirk,
Asking no greater pleasure
Than the sight of his finished work.