The Stranger within my gate, <br /> He may be true or kind, <br />But he does not talk my talk-- <br /> I cannot feel his mind. <br />I see the face and the eyes and the mouth, <br /> But not the soul behind. <br /> <br />The men of my own stock, <br /> They may do ill or well, <br />But they tell the lies I am wanted to, <br /> They are used to the lies I tell; <br />And we do not need interpreters <br /> When we go to buy or sell. <br /> <br />The Stranger within my gates, <br /> He may be evil or good, <br />But I cannot tell what powers control-- <br /> What reasons sway his mood; <br />Nor when the Gods of his far-off land <br /> Shall repossess his blood. <br /> <br />The men of my own stock, <br /> Bitter bad they may be, <br />But, at least, they hear the things I hear, <br /> And see the things I see; <br />And whatever I think of them and their likes <br /> They think of the likes of me. <br /> <br />This was my father's belief <br /> And this is also mine: <br />Let the corn be all one sheaf-- <br /> And the grapes be all one vine, <br />Ere our children's teeth are set on edge <br /> By bitter bread and wine.<br /><br />Rudyard Kipling<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-stranger/
