Fear by Helen Thurston

Do you see the gray mists twisting

Over the hill, Oh mother mine? ….

As if in dumb pain, resisting

The elements that seek to bind them to the line

Of dark hills yonder

Rising to shut the world from view,

The world and all its wonder

From the great and new . . .

Do you see the gray mists curling

Like the sea, Oh mother mine, ….

As the wind comes whirling

To the great waves swirling

Over rockbound gray-brown coastline . . . .?

Do you hear the ceaseless beating,

Mother, as the mists surge overhead

As if strange music still repeating,

Weird music like lorn dirges o er the dead . . . . ?