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Poem	Oh, straight, white road that runs to meet, Across green fields, the blue green sea, You knew the little weary feet Of my child bride that was to be! Her people brought her from the shore One golden day in sultry June, And I stood, waiting, at the door, Praying my eyes might see her soon. With eager arms, wide open thrown, Now never to be satisfied! Ere I could make my love my own She closed her amber eyes and died. Alas! alas! they took no heed How frail she was, my little one, But brought her here with cruel speed Beneath the fierce, relentless sun. We laid her on the marriage bed The bridal flowers in her hand, A maiden from the ocean led Only, alas! to die inland. I walk alone; the air is sweet, The white road wanders to the sea, I dream of those two little feet That grew so tired in reaching me.
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