Classic and Contemporary Poetry
BOYHOOD FRIENDS, by EDGAR LEE MASTERS Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: Old adam warfield had an only son Last Line: A sigh of harold, looking at the stars. Subject(s): Friendship | ||||||||
Old Adam Warfield had an only son But many daughters, and the son was turned His seventeenth year, when cannon split the walls Of Sumter and awoke the nation's fear; As when a thief at midnight fits the key Within the entrance door, and struck with dread The inmates start from sleep, hearing a creak And step upon the stair. The father tilled A rented field, and Henry, who was the son, Toiled with him, while the daughters kept the house -- The mother being frail -- in harvest time Binding for holiday the sickled wheat. One April day when Henry and his sire Made windrows of the stalks of corn, which fired Smoked in sweet incense to the soul of spring, When the frogs chorused and the blackbirds sang, A horseman passed, shouting the breathless news That Sumter's fort had fallen. With this word Young Henry Warfield left his work and ran Towards the cottage followed by old Adam, Who begged amid his tears the boy to stay, Pleading his youth, and that he being old Needed his help. But when the mother heard His resolution and his sisters ran Leaving their garden work, and threw their arms About his neck with wailings and with tears The boy wept too, but changed not his resolve To seek the war. And ere they knew, he passed The gate through and with shaded hands they saw His figure disappear below the hill, Hastn'ing towards Wendell Shipley's mansion house, Who was the justice of the township and Owner of many acres, and of the field Which Adam Warfield rented. Wendell's son, A youth near eighteen, had been sent afar To master Greek and Latin, since the father Had lost the chance himself, but having failed Was disciplined and now at home he idled The days away, half-sulking, half-ashamed, His father pondering him. So Henry came Bringing to them the dreadful news of war, And asking money for his fare to reach The place of muster fifty miles away. Then Wendell's son, named Harold, asked to go, Whereat his father darkened, brief of speech, Forbidding him, and giving Henry fare To reach the place of muster, bade him speed. Thus ended all the talk and Henry left. That night there was a moon flooding the fields, And Harold lay awake and looked upon it, Now resting on his elbow with his face Turned to the window, now at length stretched out Dreaming of war, and following in his thought The steps of Henry, Adam Warfield's son, And only staff. Then thinking of himself Whom no one needed, nay, who had disused His father's aid -- and of his father's silence When he crept home from school in ill report -- Then flashed into his head that mayhap fame And triumph in the world lay on this path Now open to him in this day of war. So slipping from his bed he dressed himself And through the door stole and along the walk, Patting old Gypsy who lay near the gate, Thumping the steps with her responsive tail. Thus to the place of muster Harold went. Whom on arrival should he see but Henry Who welcomed him, but warned him of the age He must pretend to, as himself had done. Then treason to his heart arose in Harold: For seeing how the hardened officers Dispatched their business, and the discipline That threatened, and the life that had begun To show itself in hardship and in strife, The soul of Harold sickened, and he told His age when asked, and being then rejected Turned his slow steps towards his father's house. And having come was greeted joyfully With kisses from his mother. Wendell too Warmed to the boy in pride that he had made Himself an offering to the country's cause, Forgetting that old Adam Warfield's son Must needs belie his age to join the troops. And of this Harold spoke not, kept his peace. In the first battle Henry's spirit quailed. Another day a skirmish 'twixt two forests Engaged some scattered forces, when his hand Stung suddenly, and blood dripped till 'twas bound. Then harder service, and then Shiloh thundered, And Henry seasoned to the horror of war -- His nerves grown resonant as the wire strings Drawn taut across the viol's sounding board -- With tense, rapt courage, loaded, fired, advanced Until he fell, one bullet through his side, Another through the thigh bone, lying as dead Upon that bloody field, whence he was borne For surgery and to be nursed for months, Not to return to service with his fellows, But doing duty in the hospital Till the war's end. Then home he came at last With soul and body schooled for any fate And took again the burden of the farm. But Harold Shipley meanwhile turned to books, Won his degree and chose for work the law. While in the years that followed Henry kept A quiet way by Wendell's wide domain, Serving or renting, when at forty-five A pension gave him means to buy a field Of forty acres with a cottage on it, Where with a wife and numerous progeny He lived unknown. But Harold's name was heard As one whom fame had almost touched for skill In the law's riddles, and for gift of speech In counsel or debate. Yet as the years Passed by he saw the prize still out of reach, Too high, too far, standing distinct and clear Above him, now the mists of youth which show All heights near by were cleared, and cruel light Translucent, cold, shone round the difficult rocks Beyond his strength. Then sorrow and then age Came on him and the grief of seventy years Found him alone, empty of heart and poor In courage for the end. One day a memory Of the old days with Henry flashed upon him When they had camped together in a storm That blew the tent high in the trees, in rain That swelled the river, and the boyish pride That filled them to out-brave the night and sleep On sodden blankets; and a strange desire Filled him to talk with Henry. So he went And sought the humble cottage where he dwelt. He found him in the middle afternoon Lopping the branches from a broken tree, A shrivelled, hardy man, of leather face And gray, harsh hair, beneath which shone the eyes Grown scarcely older than the boyish eyes Of long ago, but lighted with a light Unwavering and clear, which seemed to speak Of elemental secrets and the love Of intimate fellowship with nature's moods, Of perils faced, of tests of fire, of days And nights upon the battlefield. And Harold, Reading these secrets in his look, stood awed In admiration, feeling that this man Had mastered life, and though alone and poor Had need of nothing. Many years before The wife of Henry died, and one by one His sons and daughters left him. So at dusk Henry prepared the supper midst the talk Of youthful days and laughter for the deeds That came to memory. After supper pipes Before the doorway, and the silence fell That haunts the woodlands, broken by the cry Of whippoorwills. And in the silence came Over the mood of Harold, as he saw The enshadowed figure of his friend stooped over, Elbows on knees, a vision of their lives: Now since the fires of time had burned to dust, All save the hardest residue of soul, What had life brought or left him half as rich As that this farmer-soldier, from the depths Of sacrifice and toil obscurely mined, Had smelted and possessed -- the inner peace And strength, and consciousness that life has played the touchstone to the best in a man. So Henry seemed to Harold to have won, And viewed himself as one who yet had failed, Spite of his wider wisdom and the fame The years had brought him. Henry broke the silence: "To-morrow I must go at cutting weeds." "And I," said Harold, "must be back in town." Over them shone the dipper where the wind Parted the tree-tops, covering with its sound A sigh of Harold, looking at the stars. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...YOU & I BELONG IN THIS KITCHEN by JUAN FELIPE HERRERA JASON THE REAL by TONY HOAGLAND NO RESURRECTION by ROBINSON JEFFERS CHAMBER MUSIC: 17 by JAMES JOYCE CHAMBER MUSIC: 18 by JAMES JOYCE THE STONE TABLE by GALWAY KINNELL ALMSWOMAN by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN TO AN ENEMY by MAXWELL BODENHEIM SONNET: 10. TO A FRIEND by WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: ALEXANDER THROCKMORTON by EDGAR LEE MASTERS |
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