A. M. Klein

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

— A. M. Klein

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

— A. M. Klein

This is a grassy ghetto, and no home.

— A. M. Klein

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

— A. M. Klein

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

— A. M. Klein