Читать книгу Herbs and Apples - Whitney Helen Hay - Страница 5

I, whose totem was a tree

In the days when earth was new,

Joyous leafy ancestry

Known of twilight and of dew,

Now within this iron wall

Slave of tasks that irk the soul,

To my parents send one call—

That they give me of their dole.

Thro' the roar of alien sound

Grimy noise of work-a-day,

Secretly a voice, half drowned,

Whispers thro' the evening's grey,

"Child, we know the path you tread,

Ghost and manes, we are true;

Cedar spirits, long since dead,

Calm and sweet abide with you."