"Do you know a country where the brave are brave,

Where no one hates the lonely or the wise,

A country where, till death, no mortal dies?

It is not childhood. It is not the grave.

It is a real country, I believe, where skies

Like these are rainy or with wind blown blue.

Is it the very country I am passing through,

Where no man fights the dark with fists and lies?

Is it somewhere along this common street

That I may hear man's love for man sung loud?

Is it in this country that the poor are proud?-"

The stranger asked, not hearing me repeat

Denial, not even guessing I was kind

Because I thought him lost, or mad, or blind.