A black feather's fallen and landed at my feet
It shows the wild grown path is better than the street.
The Witch-Tree has fallen, her trunk across the road,
but you must bear her curse if I must bear the load.
The scarecrow has vanished into ta**led corn;
I'll follow him this evening.
You'll come tomorrow morn.
And when the path is cut for you, you'll claim it as your own.
I sleep amongst the maple keys, while you reap what I've sown.
An empty bottle's fallen and landed in the dirt.
I've filled it with these words.
I've filled it with your curse.