Mysterious Path



We tread the paths their feet have worn,
    We sit beneath their orchard trees,
    We hear, like them, the hum of bees
And rustle of the bladed corn;
We turn the pages that they read,
    Their written words we linger o'er,
But in the sun they cast no shade,
No voice is heard, no sign is made,
    No step is on the conscious floor!

-John Greenleaf Whittier (1807 - 1892),
Snow-Bound; A Winter Idyl







images © 2000 by Randy Wang
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