Calista Miller Burton
The keepers of the house are frail and trembling:
The grinders to pieces fall
The windows no longer witness beauty;
The doors can no longer recall.
The murmuring sound will fade most sweetly
The almond trees white blossoms appear
The voice of the bird will be ever so shrill
As the grasshopper can no longer climb the hill.
The silver cord and golden bowl will be locked to the pillow