THE INN
I
Friendship's an inn the roads of life afford
—I'll speak to you in metaphor, my friend—
And there a tired man his way may wend,
And, coming in, sit down beside the board,
Out of the dust and glare, and boldly send
For drink and victuals; haply cross his knees,
And in the cool dark parlour take his ease,
And gossip of his journey and its end.
That's friendship; there is neither right of place
Nor landlord duties, just the short hour's stay
From the sun and weariness between those kind
And quiet walls; and when the road's to face
Stony and long again, we take our way
Keeping that respite gratefully in mind.