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Show DEATH OF A FARMER "What a place to die!" My father's form, bib-overalled, lay prone In horse-tromped hay and weedy loam, his head Lap-held by his child son now suddenly Grown man. "I closed his eyes, " he said. "And held his jaw. " My mother's cry Was anguish-yet what fitter place for him- On land he tilled for these last thirty years ? The stable where he housed his first young flock Already ghosted by the move to town, Rain-leached, wind-dried, his only meager shade The nests of sparrows in the willowed shed. The cabin where he brought her as a bride Is gone, the chicken coop, the river gate. The well was here, the granary stood there, |