How much am I bid for a proud old wall That a forefather built in the long ago? And how much for the acres, the reaching rods That climb the way that the tall winds know? And what will they give for the rambling barn That brought and sheltered the new-born things That knew his love, in their helplessness? And what is the price his silence brings? And who will offer a worthwhile sum For a house that was never a house to me, But a home? and what for a pasture gate And a spring, and the soul of a hemlock tree? And how much for the road that searched the hill And led his feet to the setting sun When his work was finished, his great hands still? . . . And what for a heart, when the sale is done? |