Page:Poems by Cushag.djvu/39

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37

For a stranger came to these gentle souls,
And a sick heart craved for rest:
They gave her their love and they gave her their care
And they gave her of all their best.
Is it only the wind in the waving pines
Or the sound of the distant sea?
Or is it the voice of the Stranger Guest—
"Ye did it unto Me."