Joseph Friedlander, comp. The Standard Book of Jewish Verse. 1917.
By Alice D. BrahamPurim, 1900
T
Pale wandered from the East! Upon thy brow
Hang once-fresh garlands, sadly withered now;
Time’s hand hath marred what it might not destroy,
Darkened thy fame, and made thee almost dumb
From cold neglect. Thy backward-gazing eyes
See visions of dead happy pasts arise
To mock thee with sweet laughter. Children come
And wonderingly look on one they loved,
Who brought them gifts and pleasure and a tale
That even Repetition could not stale,—
Of Love triumphant, and of Hate removed,
Now scatter ashes on thy reverend head,
Israel forgets thee, Purim! thou art dead.