A. M. Klein

“The animals pale, the shine of the fur is lost, bleached are their living bones. About them watch as through a mist, the pious prosperous ghosts.”

“For the tourist'sbrown pennies scattered at the old church door,the ragged papooses jump, and bite the dust.”

“This is a grassy ghetto, and no home.”

“Where are the braves, the faces like autumn fruit,who stared at the child from the coloured frontispiece?”

“And my tears, too, have stained this heirloomed ground,When reading in these treatises some weirdMiracle, I turned a leaf and foundA white hair fallen from my father's beard.”