(To the memory of my grandfather, d. Sept. 11, 1925)
Come down the fencerow to me, lad; come see
Me where I’ll always lie, beneath the sun
That always turns its blissful smile on me.
Come see me, lad. There is no need to run,
Nor reason, either. I’ll lie here grinning, still
As this bloody ground: still as the gun
That lies beside my hand, and takes the chill
My heart has taken from the bitter lead
I self-prescribed to cure my cureless ill.
Come stand beside me, son. This stony bed
Is lonely. You’re thirty years unborn; but I
Will always haunt your days: my shattered head
Will always speak, and I will patient lie
And call for you, beneath this smiling sky.