Poetry Archives

Our altar is the dewy sod—
Our temple yon blue throne of God:
No priestly rite our souls to bind—
We bow before the Almighty Mind.

Oh, Thou whose realm is wide as air—
Thou wilt not spurn the Gipsies’ prayer:
Though banned and barred by all beside,
Be Thou the Outcast’s guard and guide.

Poor fragments of a Nation wrecked—
Its story whelmed in Time’s neglect—
We drift unheeded on the wave,
If God refuse the lost to save.

Yet though we name no Fatherland—
And though we clasp no kindred hand—
Though houseless, homeless wanderers we—
Oh give us Hope, and Heaven with Thee!