Classic and Contemporary Poetry
FATHERLAND, by ELOISE ROBINSON First Line: For what would a man die? Last Line: A greater spring than ours. Subject(s): Landscape | ||||||||
For what would a man die? For what would a man be dead, In April? -- go down and lie In a low bed, And when spring was passing by Pull the covers over his head? Did he know his house would be dark, The window curtains drawn, When the morning star was a spark On the ashes of the dawn? -- Chilly and very low, With no door swinging back and forth Where he may pass and go Over the shining swarth, With the winds singing to and fro And the redbirds winging north? Would he lie like a straight ash stick When the roots around him stir And the other dead are quick -- The daisy and ragweed and burr? -- Lie still, though he hear in his night The wind blowing on to June; The silence of ripe sunlight Over the grass at noon; The stars like bees overhead In the apple trees and the plums? For what would a man be dead Now April comes? Do men love Fatherland So, that they die for these: Night in blue valleys, and The breakers of blue seas; Clouds marching, caravanned, And star-acquainted trees; Cities time's made grey And talkative and wise; Hills so old they may Watch pain with patient eyes; Young mountain-tops that play At touching the skies; The heavens, like a bent hand; The brown earth underneath? Are these his Fatherland, For which man stops his breath, Takes off his body, and Goes down to sit with Death? Or is it this that rouses His heart to go: Do streets of little houses Keep haunting him so With their secrets, like small caged birds That flutter and fly at the sill, And their ghosts of long-dead words That are walking still; With their cool white beds for sleep, And their tables spread, And their tented roofs that keep Out the curious moon overhead? For these what man would end His own fire and lamp-light, His thought that is his friend And sits by his hearth at night; His old, acquainted clothes And the sweet taste of bread -- All of the things he knows -- Go down in the earth and be dead? No, this is Fatherland, For which men, lifting up Life, toss it on the sand Like water from a cup: A little land that has Truth round it like a sea, Where dreams are many as The leaves are on a tree, And stars grow in the grass For men to touch and see. A little, holy land Within all hearts of men The earth holds in her hand -- There he is citizen With high, heroic things, With faiths and loyalties, With deeds that put on wings, And songs that sing of these; With sacrifice, though it be For a mistaken dream; Justice and mercy Alive with a little gleam In the earth of men who say They have rooted it from the sod And taken another way And got them another God. From mountains of the moon April has come once more; But April, nor May, nor June, Will ever find his door. He lies so quiet now In puzzlement how death Can be so kind, and how Lightly he draws his breath. Almost afraid to stir Lest he find his dreaming vain, He drinks of wonder there As green leaves drink the rain. I think he was not sad To feel his weight of clay, Nor sorry that he had Lost April's way. He had such glory in His closing eyes He needs no stars to spin And bubble in clear skies, No young south wind that leaps Singing, no April flowers; Within his house he keeps A greater spring than ours. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...HOODED NIGHT by ROBINSON JEFFERS THE PLACE FOR NO STORY by ROBINSON JEFFERS THE BEAUTY OF THINGS by ROBINSON JEFFERS VARIATIONS ON A NEO-CLASSIC THEME by DONALD JUSTICE DIRGE AT THE END OF THE WOODS by LEONIE ADAMS KENNST DU DAS LAND by LEONIE ADAMS INVITATION TO A PAINTER: 3 by WILLIAM ALLINGHAM SONNET: 19. ON A BEAUTIFUL LANDSCAPE by WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES |
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