Comments about Teresa Dearing
Walk softly ‘cross these hallowed hills,
Wake not the spirits of dark chills.
As night falls ‘cross these harvest fields,
Where corn and soy, gave up their yields.
Fog now sends out her drifting hand,
To touch and chill the lowly man.
Light now a shrouded silver mist,
The moon griped in its mighty fist.
For in this land the ancient sleep,