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 The child gazed round him. “Does God live
Here only?—where the desert's rim
Is green with corn, at morn and eve,
We pray to Him.
My brother tills beside the Nile
His little field; beneath the leaves
My sisters sit and spin, the while
My mother weaves.
And when the millet's ripe heads fall,
And all the bean-field hangs in pod,
My mother smiles, and says that all
Are gifts from God.
And when to share our evening meal,
She calls the stranger at the door,
She says God fills the hands that deal
Food to the poor. “
Adown the hermit's wasted cheeks
Glistened the flow of human tears;
‘Dear Lord!’ he said, “Thy angel speaks,
Thy servant hears.”
Within his arms the child he took,
And thought of home and life with men;
And all his pilgrim feet forsook
The palmy shadows cool and long,
The eyes that smiled through lavish locks,
Home's cradle-hymn and harvest-song,
And bleat of flocks.
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