Lee in the Mountains

Doing the Lord's Work by Saving the White Race

The Stranger

The Stranger within my gate,
He may be true or kind,
But he does not talk my talk–
I cannot feel his mind
I see the face and the eyes and mouth
But not the soul behind.

The men of my own stock,
They may do ill or well,
But they tell the lies I am wonted to,
They are used to the lies I tell;
And we do not need interpreters
When we go to buy and sell.

The stranger within my gates
He may be evil or good
But I cannot tell what powers control,
What reasons sway his mood;
Nor when the Gods of his far-off land
Shall repossess his blood.

The men of my own stock,
Bitter bad they may be,
But at least they hear the things I hear
And see the things I see;
And whatever I think of them and their likes,
They think of the likes of me.

This was my father’s belief,
And this is also mine:
Let all the corn be one sheaf
And the grapes be all one vine
Ere our children’s teeth are set on edge
By bitter bread and wine.

-Rudyard Kipling

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