Poems (Piatt)/Volume 2/A Neighbourhood Incident
A NEIGHBOURHOOD INCIDENT.
"Did you know, Mamma, that the man was dead
In that pretty place, there under the hill"
"So, with only the clouds to cover his head,
He died down there in that old stone mill;
He died, in the wind and sleet, and—mark
This truth, fair sirs—in the dark.
In that pretty place, there under the hill"
"So, with only the clouds to cover his head,
He died down there in that old stone mill;
He died, in the wind and sleet, and—mark
This truth, fair sirs—in the dark.
"(Yes, a pretty place!) In the summer-time,
When the birds sing out of the leaves for joy,
And the blue wild morning-glories climb
On the broken walls, it is pretty, my boy:
But not when the world around is snow
And the river is ice below.
When the birds sing out of the leaves for joy,
And the blue wild morning-glories climb
On the broken walls, it is pretty, my boy:
But not when the world around is snow
And the river is ice below.
"Men looked sometimes from the morning cars
Toward the place where he lay in the winter sun,
And said, through the smoke of their dear cigars,
That something really ought to be done.
Then talked of the President, or the play,
Or the war—that was farthest away."
Toward the place where he lay in the winter sun,
And said, through the smoke of their dear cigars,
That something really ought to be done.
Then talked of the President, or the play,
Or the war—that was farthest away."
"Do you know when his father wanted some bread,
One time, by the well there? Wasn't he old!
I mean that day when the blossoms were red
On the cliffs, and it wasn't so very cold"—
"And I gave him the little I well could spare
When I looked at his face and hair.
One time, by the well there? Wasn't he old!
I mean that day when the blossoms were red
On the cliffs, and it wasn't so very cold"—
"And I gave him the little I well could spare
When I looked at his face and hair.
"Then we met him once—it was almost night—
Out looking for berries among the briers,
(So withered and weird, such a piteous sight!)
And gathering wood for their gypsy fires.
'No, the young man is no better. No, no,'
He would keep on saying, so low."
Out looking for berries among the briers,
(So withered and weird, such a piteous sight!)
And gathering wood for their gypsy fires.
'No, the young man is no better. No, no,'
He would keep on saying, so low."
"But the women there would not work, they say."
"Why, that is the story; but, if it be true,
There are other women, I think, to-day
Who will not work, yet, their whole lives through,
All lovely things from the seas and lands
Drop into their idle hands.
"Why, that is the story; but, if it be true,
There are other women, I think, to-day
Who will not work, yet, their whole lives through,
All lovely things from the seas and lands
Drop into their idle hands.
"But these would not work, so their brother—and ours—
Deserved to die in that desolate place?
Shall we send regrets and the usual flowers?
Shall we stop and see the upbraiding face,
As it lies in the roofless room forlorn,
For the sake of a dead man's scorn?
Deserved to die in that desolate place?
Shall we send regrets and the usual flowers?
Shall we stop and see the upbraiding face,
As it lies in the roofless room forlorn,
For the sake of a dead man's scorn?
"He did his best, as none will deny,
At serving the Earth to pay for his breath;
So she gave him early (and why not, why?)
The one thing merciful men call Death.
Ah! gift that must be gracious indeed,
Since it leaves us nothing to need!
At serving the Earth to pay for his breath;
So she gave him early (and why not, why?)
The one thing merciful men call Death.
Ah! gift that must be gracious indeed,
Since it leaves us nothing to need!
". . . As for us, sweet friends, let us dress and sleep,
Let us praise our pictures and drink our wine.
Meanwhile, let us drive His starving sheep
To our good Lord Christ, on the heights divine;
For the flowerless valleys are dim and drear,
And the winds right bitter, down here."
Let us praise our pictures and drink our wine.
Meanwhile, let us drive His starving sheep
To our good Lord Christ, on the heights divine;
For the flowerless valleys are dim and drear,
And the winds right bitter, down here."
North Bend, Ohio.