Poem November 18, 1967 Issue

THE INHERITORS

Margaret Hovenden Ogden

We found the handwriting of a husbandman
Tn the residuum of his farmhouse and his farm,
Left here in husks—and in perennials.
The paths, cemented by the years of use,
The barns, the pasture bars, the fields he cropped.
Another trail for younger feet to follow
Led up the hill to the school—and on to the world.

The discoverers were the inheritors;
Not of a house that was no longer there,
Nor of the stones, their outlines were too small
To meet today's demands upon its sons,
Nor of the paths, emptied of destination,
The fields had been reclaimed from the passive plow.

But the place was vigorous still with intrinsic life:
Here he had found the vision to clear the land,
The strength to wrench away the useless roots,
The patience to tread the wheel of the daily chores
From endeavor to accomplishment,
The lonely way from petition up to praise.
This husbandry was the gift of the Father's love,
And he—and we—are His inheritors.

Margaret Hovenden Ogden

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