Upon the scythe's worn edge he laid the stone -- A gaunt, bent figure in the graveyard old, A shepherd watching o'er a silent fold Where village fathers slept among their own. For fifty years he mowed the weeds o'ergrown And straightened frost-heaved headstones in their hold; From early spring to time of autumn gold He kept his watch, mute, patient, alone. With years he saw the little graveyard creep And widen on the hill, and side by side With youth he laid his cronies' lessening band . . . I hailed him as his scythe fell in its sweep And asked him why his toiling. He replied: "The trump has blown, and I'm the first on hand!" | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE FIDDLING WOOD by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET ON BRODSKY'S COLLECTED by MICHAEL S. HARPER THE GIFT TO SING by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON TO J. D. H. (KILLED AT SURREY C. H., OCTOBER, 1866) by SIDNEY LANIER SURFACES AND MASKS; 30 by CLARENCE MAJOR |