| |
| Oh, the lives of men, lives of men, | |
| In pattern-molds be run; | |
| But there’s you, and me, and Bindlestiff— | |
| And remember Mary’s Son. | |
| |
| At dawn the hedges and the wheel-ruts ran | 5 |
| Into a brightening sky. The grass bent low | |
| With shimmering dew, and many a late wild rose | |
| Unrolled the petals from its odorous heart | |
| While birds held tuneful gossip. Suddenly, | |
| Each bubbling trill and whistle hid away | 10 |
| As from a hawk; the fragrant silence heard | |
| Only the loving stir of little leaves; | |
| Then a man’s baritone broke roughly in: | |
| |
| I’ve gnawed my crust of mouldy bread, | |
| Skimmed my mulligan stew; | 15 |
| Laid beneath the barren hedge— | |
| Sleety night-winds blew. | |
| |
| Slanting rain chills my bones, | |
| Sun bakes my skin; | |
| Rocky road for my limping feet, | 20 |
| Door where I can’t go in. | |
| |
| Above the hedgerow floated filmy smoke | |
| From the hidden singer’s fire. Once more the voice: | |
| |
| I used to burn the mules with the whip | |
| When I worked on the grading gang; | 25 |
| But the boss was a crook, and he docked my pay— | |
| Some day that boss will hang. | |
| |
| I used to live in a six by nine, | |
| Try to save my dough— | |
| It’s a bellful of the chaff of life, | 30 |
| Feet that up and go. | |
| |
| The mesh of leafy branches rustled loud, | |
| Into the road slid Bindlestiff. You’ve seen | |
| The like of the traveller: gaunt humanity | |
| In stained and broken coat, with untrimmed hedge | 35 |
| Of rusty beard and curling sunburnt hair; | |
| His hat, once white, a dull uncertain cone; | |
| His leathery hands and cheeks, his bright blue eyes | |
| That always see new faces and strange dogs; | |
| His mouth that laughs at life and at himself. | 40 |
| |
| Sometimes they shut you up in jail— | |
| Dark, and a filthy cell; | |
| I hope the fellows built them jails | |
| Find ’em down in hell. | |
| |
| But up above, you can sleep outdoors— | 45 |
| Feed you like a king; | |
| You never have to saw no wood, | |
| Only job is sing. | |
| |
| The tones came mellower, as unevenly | |
| The tramp limped off trailing the hobo song: | 50 |
| |
| Good-bye, farewell to Omaha, | |
| K. C., and Denver, too; | |
| Put my foot on the flying freight, | |
| Going to ride her through. | |
| |
| Bindlestiff topped a hillock, against the sky | 55 |
| Showed stick and bundle with his extra shoes | |
| Jauntily dangling. Bird to bird once more | |
| Made low sweet answer; in the wild rose cups | |
| The bee found yellow meal; all softly moved | |
| The white and purple morning-glory bells | 60 |
| As on the gently rustling hedgetop leaves | |
| The sun’s face rested. Bindlestiff was gone. | |
| |
| Oh, the lives of men, lives of men, | |
| In pattern-molds be run; | |
| But there’s you, and me, and Bindlestiff— | 65 |
And remember Mary’s Son.
Poetry, A Magazine of Verse | |
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