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George Lewis Avery

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"sad muse," i had asked, "what song is this that flows from your harp strings?"

"not lyrics," answered he, "but echoes."

i listened. but i did not hear them

until today ...

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"regard good man this song of mine. avoid these hollow hills. ne'er sit beneath their lonesome pine. ne'er rest beside their rills.

elude the heart at eventide. hear not late autumns' sigh. take care, lest they should coincide. ne'er dream beneath the sky.

don't rouse at night when you espy a shadow on your sill. ne'er come to love the nighthawks cry. ne'er heed the whippoorwill.

your heart can fill a shallow grave. your soul, one deeper still. so flee, young man, lest ye'd be a slave, to these lonesome, hollow hills."

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... repeated many tired years later ... but they were not echoes.

this time i spoke them, so i must have heard them unawares.

.oeg ©

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