Poetry

A wanderer hears drums, warning him of war,
And that one cry of autumn from a wild-goose at the border,
And he knows that the dews tonight will be frost

Four hundred dollars beat for him Like a still heart within the house,
Midway the wall whereon a clock Made nightly music for the mouse.

Snow whitens mountains westward and the forts of three cities,
Waters from the southern lakes flash on miles of bridge;
Wind and dust from sea to sea shut me from my brothers;

I never shall know
while I live, what it meant. . . .