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Show The woodpile and the axe-I see them now Between the banks of orchard, ringed by fence And poplar trees, since yielded to his plow. His small-boned feet are shrunken in his shoes, His work-scarred hands relaxed, soil-grimed, Still shovel-handle curved, his hat aside, The tall form spare, his chiselled nostrils s t i l l - Breathed in, breathed out, and not breathed in again Between the water-turn and shocking wheat In one convulsive, crucifying pain. Death waives decorum, neither waits the bath On Saturday, the Sunday shave, the tie, But took him as he was-and so do I. |