Oh, the lives of men, lives of men, In pattern-molds be run; But there's you, and me, and Bindlestiff -- And remember Mary's Son. At dawn the hedges and the wheel-ruts ran Into a brightening sky. The grass bent low With shimmering dew, and many a late wild rose Unrolled the petals from its odorous heart While birds held tuneful gossip. Suddenly, Each bubbling trill and whistle hid away As from a hawk; the fragrant silence heard Only the loving stir of little leaves; Then a man's baritone broke roughly in: I've' gnawed my crust of mouldy bread, Skimmed my mulligan stew; Laid beneath the barren hedge -- Sleety night-winds blew. Slanting rain chills my bones, Sun bakes my skin; Rocky road for my limping feet, Door where I can't go in. Above the hedgerow floated filmy smoke From the hidden singer's fire. Once more the voice: I used to burn the mules with the whip When I worked on the grading gang; But the boss was a crook, and he docked my pay -- Some day that boss will hang. I used to live in a six by nine, Try to save my dough -- It's a bellful of the chaff of life, Feet that up and go. The mesh of leafy branches rustled loud, Into the road slid Bindlestiff. You've seen The like of the traveller: gaunt humanity In stained and broken coat, with untrimmed hedge Of rusty beard and curling sunburnt hair; His hat, once white, a dull uncertain cone; His leathery hands and cheeks, his bright blue eyes That always see new faces and strange dogs; His mouth that laughs at life and at himself. Sometimes they shut you up in jail -- Dark, and a filthy cell; I hope the fellows built them jails Find 'em down in hell. But up above, you can sleep outdoors -- Feed you like a king; You' never have to saw no wood, Only job is sing. The tones came mellower, as unevenly The tramp limped off trailing the hobo song: Good-bye, farewell to Omaha, K. C., and Denver, too; Put my foot on the flying freight, Going to ride her through. Bindlestiff topped a hillock, against the sky Showed stick and bundle with his extra shoes Jauntily dangling. Bird to bird once more Made low sweet answer; in the wild rose cups The bee found yellow meal; all softly moved The white and purple morning-glory bells As on the gently rustling hedgetop leaves The sun's face rested. Bindlestiff was gone. Oh, the lives of men, lives of men, In pattern-molds be run; But there's you, and me, and Bindlestiff -- And remember Mary's Son. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...FISH-LEAP FALL by ROBERT FROST AGAINST THE REST OF THE YEAR by JAMES GALVIN SELF-ANALYSIS by DAVID IGNATOW TO ATLANTA UNIVERSITY - ITS FOUNDERS AND TEACHERS by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON ODE TO THE JOHNS HOPKINS UNIVERSITY by SIDNEY LANIER DISMAL MOMENT PASSING by CLARENCE MAJOR SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: AMI GREEN by EDGAR LEE MASTERS |