Classic Poem

Scaves fall turning turning to the ground,
by the front eaves racing, following the wind;
murmuring voices seem to speak to me
they whirl and toss in headlong flight
the empty hall in the yellow dusk of evening:
I sit here silent, unspeaking
The young boy comes in from outdoors,
trims the lamp, sets it before me,
asks me questions I do not answer,
brings me a supper I do not eat
He goes and sits down by the west wall,
reading me poetry — three or four poems;
the poet is not a man of today —
already a thousand years divide us —
but something in his words strikes my heart,
fills it again with an acid grief.
I turn and call to the boy:
Put down the book and go to bed now —
a man has times when he must think,
and work to do that never ends.