Ruth

Jacob Fichman

1927

On these night fields of pure silence
My feet tread, light and sure, as upon
A homeland’s holy soil from the day
My star led me here.
How loving are the night’s wings! My eye
Discerns every bush here, each rock, each clod of earth,
And like a good and faithful hand it guides me.
Only a few days have I been here, and like a seed
Stricken by no…
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