WEBVTT

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I'm now really from a very
recent book of poems called,

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what is it called, by the way?

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Oh, Now and Then.

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[LAUGHTER]

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This evening hour, I might
even say a recollection.

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There was a graveyard once,
or cemetery is more toney

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now to say.

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Just a field without fence,
pretty far from town.

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On a hill good and gravelly,
so rain wouldn't stand

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to disturb local residents,

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though all were long past
sniffles and rheumatism:

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a tract of no real estate
value, where flourished not

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even thistle.

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And the spade at
the grievous chasm

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would go chink on chipped
flint in the dirt.

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For in times forgot,
here the Indian

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crouched to perfect
his arrowhead.

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And there was a boy long
after who gathered such things

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among the shiny new tombstones.

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Recording the
first planted dead,

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and now and then looking up
at the buzzard's high glinting

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wings.

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Not thinking of
flesh and its nature,

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but suddenly, still for
maybe two minutes; as when,

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up the rise, a great
through freight

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strove in the pantings and
clank of man's living will,

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asserting itself in the
face of an ignorant date.

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Not morbid, nor putting 2 and
2 together to make any mystic

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or fumblingly
philosophical four,

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he sometimes kept waiting,
if decent the weather, there

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low in the way,
arrowheads forgotten,

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till all the lights of
the town had come on.

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He did not know why the
lights, so familiar,

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now seemed so far away.

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And more than once
felt a crazy impulse

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grow to lay ear to Earth,
what voices beneath might say.

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