And pride of place, that leads me more astray:—
Here I renew my vows, and this chief vow—
To seek each year this shrine of deathless power,
Keeping my springtime cornland thoughts in flower,
While labor-gnarled grey Christians round me bow.
Arm me against great towns, strong spirits old!
St. Francis keep me road-worn, music-fed.
Help me to look upon the poor-house bed
As a most fitting death, more dear than gold.
Help me to seek the sunburned groups afield,