A. M. Klein

“And my tears, too, have stained this heirloomed ground,A white hair fallen from my father's beard.”

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

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

“For the tourist'sthe ragged papooses jump, and bite the dust.”

“The animals pale, the shine of the fur is lost,as through a mist, the pious prosperous ghosts.”