And my tears, too, have stained this heirloomed ground, When reading in these treatises some weird Miracle, I turned a leaf and found 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's brown pennies scattered at the old church door, the ragged papooses jump, and bite the dust.

No poet is ever completely lost. He has the secret of his childhood safe with him, like some secret cave in which he can kneel. And, when we read his poetry, w…

I think a lot of what I was taught, gathered, and learned is worth keeping. Heritage and 'wisdom' and simply personal family and local history enrich the one a…

La joie d'une mere est une lumiere qui jaillit jusque sur l'avenir et le lui eclaire, mais qui se reflete sur le passe pour lui donner le charme des souvenirs.