I

Whose furthest footstep never strayed
Beyond the village of his birth,
Is but a lodger for the night
In this old wayside inn of earth.

Tomorrow he shall tae his pack,
And set outfor the ways beond,
n the old trail from star to star,
An alien and a vagabond.

II

If any record of our names
Be blown about the hills of time,
Let no one sunder us in death,--
The man of paint, the man of rhyme.

Of all our good, of all our bad,
This one thing only is of worth,--
We held the league of heart to heart
The only purpose of the earth.