To James Whitcomb Riley

Your trail runs to the westward,
    And mine to my own place;
  There is water between our lodges,
    And I have not seen your face.

  But since I have read your verses
     'Tis easy to  guess the rest,--
  Because in the hearts of the children
    There is neither East nor West.

 Born to a thousand fortunes
   Of good or evil hap,
 Once they were kings together,
   Throned in a mother's lap.

 Surely they know that secret--
   Yellow and black and white--
When they meet as kings together
   In innocent dreams at night.

By a moon they all can play with--
  Grubby and grimed and unshod,
Very happy together,
  And very near to God.

Your trail runs to the westward,
  And mine to my own place:
There is water between our lodges,
  And you cannot see my face.--

And that is well--for crying
  Should neither be written nor seen,
But if I call you Smoke-in-the-Eyes,
 I know you will know what I mean.