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THE STRANGER'S HEART.
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THE STRANGER'S HEART.
The stranger's heart! Oh! wound it not!
A yearning anguish is its lot;
In the green shadow of thy tree,
The stranger finds no rest with thee.
Thou think'st the vine's low rustling leaves
Glad music round thy household eaves;
To him that sound hath sorrow's tone—
The stranger's heart is with his own.
Thou think'st thy children's laughing play
A lovely sight at fall of day;—
Then are the stranger's thoughts oppress'd—
His mother's voice comes o'er his breast.
