From far away, the houses on the hillside look perfect
Winter’s bare trees, above and below
Are unfocused: the grey upstrokes of the painter’s stiff brush
But the red-brick houses are square, their lines even
Their white shutters all in a row
In this sunlight they bask, looking new as the morning.
Who lives there?
Those who give more than they take?
Whose hope inspires good work and creates wealth?
Whose tables tonight will be spread with health and abundance?
Whose lives are not dependent on the decisions of corrupt offices?
Whose sleep is peaceful?
Oh, that there were some such
Oh, that there were many
Oh, that the center might hold.
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