Because I have reserved all tears for those
who began their steady dying at birth,
I have no tears for you.
Let weeping be spent
on contemptible
men who murder their sphere
of time. Oh, spacious man, your mind as wide
as the sage plains, who dares to weep for you?
Old man, still bull-chested at seventy,
I remember your lifting the hewn fence
logs in line, split by your
hardened hands. You had
the clean strength of a
stand of virgin timber,
earthy and good in the long making. You
had no need of a common after-life:
such promises were made for lesser men.
For you, soft mouldering of the forest
floor and the birds come back
again was grace. We
brought you bread the day
before you died. You gave
us the last of your G.I. gun oil.
The clean rifles were ready at your going.