human
Where are the hands to guide the waiting plow, To sway the lumbering oxen with a stroke, Now waiting at the bars for band and yoke?-- An exile curst as with a branded brow. The kindly walls that cannot shield him now Are black in embers that have ceased to smoke, Wrapt tenderly with marsh-fogs as a cloak. The willows shade no gables where they bow. The wandering exile from dead Acadie Sees through the mist of sorrow never done That mercy has no hand held out to save. Yet ne'er again the meadows of the sea Mayhap shall know this heart-sore, weary son, Denied the kindness of an alien grave.