With the basket on his arm, 

 Carrying it very firmly 

 Lest his father might take harm. 

 Till he came a byway unto 

 Fashioned from another way, 

 And a niche seen at the summit 

 Of a guiding lantern ray. 

 Lifted then the basket gently, 

 Poised, and placed it in the niche, 

 Saying "Farewell, ancient father, 

 'Tis the custom" ... after which 

 Bowed his head before his father 

 Thrice, and swiftly turned to go, 

 Knowing that it was the custom, 

 Thinking it was better so. 

 Suddenly he heard a droning, 

 Like a gnat's small plaintive lay, 

 Somewhere in the dark behind him 

 Where the "Ancient Persons" lay, 

 Heard a little ghostly twitter 

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