There is a door, forever girded round with flowers sweet,
Within a fire will always quietly burn,
And where the weary traveller may return,
To eat of simple, homely food, and drink,
Enough to satisfy his need.
A place where peace will always dwell, and sleep,
Is blessed by safety and sweet dreams.
Here may the weary pilgrim come,
Here may he find the home he needs,
Or in the coming leave refreshed,
To walk once more the dusty roads.
This home, this place is there for those,
Willing to accept its simple gifts,
It’s name is freely offered rest,
To he who would knock on the door.



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