Classic Poem

I

There is one country
and no shame to it
For having a heart hot in the bosom
Or songs in the mouth humming
That servant-girls sing at their dishes
Wherever the men of it are
Are the laughter and the sorrowing
of their own land
And whenever a stranger speaks
it is an odd word he is saying

The rich coins sing in the hands of them
But whether it is I am deaf now
Or whether it is I am blinded
By the thought of the dead
rank in my eyes even
I am weary
for speech like new cress in the river
I am sick for a sight of him
for whom my tears fall

II

I ask more of this season
Than leaves seeking the ground
birds guiding the wind south
or a doorstep swept clean for winter
No lost things
fingers of stars pointing out
steps on the wet grass
the moon ringing the hay-bells the frogs crying
out upon what a mouth said or remembered
Or the eyelids of one town lifting
No answer
From fields struck dumb with frost
But a new season blooming
a new history of feast-days
For a young man who died one autumn

III

If I thought
this is the way I'd be
Waiting when the door
let him in
lock of hair blown on the room's face
I'd be combing it
back of my ears if I
Thought he'd be growing up in the glass
this is the way my legs
crossed and my hands
lying

If I thought I could
see him make sugars fly
up his cuffs after dinner find
potatoes hot in the dogs' ears
if I thought I could
hear the thin bark of
his shoes on the gravel this is the way
my eyes waiting
and my heart crying until
I be dead with him