All this...
O, this shall be his.
He who in well-leaned doorways
And oft-learned corners
Hath resigned any byways
To dream: “A tall order
To rove in the mud
And muck up one's soles”
Says he who would trod
Upon painless goals.
Him safe in his womb,
His wont wooden beams.
Neglect to his comb and
Plume and dusty seeds.
“Who would fret in the rain?”
He asks. “And why suffer venture?”
“I've a cubby! Where's the shame
In my hearth and decanter?”
“I tell you all!” he says
One night, in a fit. “Them's fools!
They that count on the coldness and chance
Of a bleak, backwards world
In despotic hands. Come time,
Come the end- You'll see what I have!”
O, the mites and the mice
And the crumbs and the cracks
And the creaks in the night
And the stock-still plants
And the angles all learned
And the steps all a measure
And every walking turn
And every processed pleasure
And the patterns and ease
With his paper and naps
What is good on the knees
And light on the back
And the age and the greys
And the frustrating lust
And the well-worn ways
And the old codger's fuss
And the twilight come
And the shadows of scythes
And a final look back
Through wondering eyes
And the what-if's and why's
Of the best girl in Eire
And the laughter of kids
In a moistening eye...
And the plain wooden box
And the standard rites
And the empty expanse
Of the graveyard night.
And no crowd and no cries
Just a man and spade
And pile of dirt
Where ol' whats-his-name lays
All this-
O, This shall be his.
-c. c. Condry