"There is an ode of his that came back to me as our poor Italian was talking.

I think I will say it to you.

It is just the time and place for it." "Do," said Colin.

And then I repeated: _"At sunset, when the eyes of exiles fill, And distance makes a desert of the heart, And all the lonely world grows lonelier still, I with the other exiles go apart, And offer up the stranger's evening prayer.
My body shakes with weeping as I pray, Thinking on all I love that are not there, So desolately absent far away-- My Love and Friend, and my own land and home.
O aching emptiness of evening skies! O foolish heart, what tempted thee to roam So far away from the Beloved's eyes! To the Beloved's country I belong-- I am a stranger in this foreign place; Strange are its streets, and strange to me its tongue; Strange to the stranger each familiar face.
'Tis not my city! Take me by the hand, Divine protector of the lonely ones, And lead me back to the Beloved's land-- Back to my friends and my companions O wind that blows from Shiraz, bring to me A little dust from my Beloved's street; Send Hafiz something, love, that comes from thee, Touched by thy hand, or trodden by thy feet."_ "My! but that makes one feel lonesome," was Colin's comment.

"I wonder if there will be any mail from the folk at Mount Morris.".