Stanch friends are we, well-tried and strong,
The little sandpiper and I.
Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night,
When the loosed storm breaks furiously?
My driftwood fire will burn so bright!
To what warm shelter can’st thou fly?
I do not fear for thee, though wroth
The tempest rushes through the sky;
For are we not God’s children, both,
Thou, little sandpiper, and I?