Dora Sigerson Shorter,
The Man Who Trod on Sleeping Grass
(1907)
“ My neighbours still upbraid me, And murmur as I pass, “There goes a man enchanted. He trod on fairy grass.” My little ones around me, They claim my old caress, I push them roughly from me With hands that cannot bless. My wife upon my shoulder A bitter tear lets fall, I turn away in anger And love her not at all. For like a man surrounded. ”
