THE INHERITORS

We found the handwriting of a husbandmanTn 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 followLed 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 smallTo meet today's demands upon its sons,Nor of the paths, emptied of destination,The fields had been reclaimed from the passive plow.

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Love Thyself
November 18, 1967
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