The wolves of the wind at his heels, the buzzard wind
Wheeling over him, waiting to pick his bones—
This was the end, he guessed, and chuckled a bit
To find himself, at the end of all, still thinking
Incorrigibly in metaphors.
Strange, though,
For death to come so casually on him, after
All the sonorous phrases he had scribbled
Of its dark majesty: a balky motor
That mocked his tinkering, ever maladroit
At tools, or trade, or anything but words;
And then the sudden, sibilant, spiteful fury
Of snow—in April!
He should never have left
The car—thus wisdom told him, tardy as always.
Yet it had seemed that any fool might find
That homestead shack, with road and fence to guide him.
And then the fence had dwindled out, and with it
The road, and the snow thickened, bludgeoning, blinding him,
Hobbling his feet in a nightmare sloth. And soon
Sleep would come on him, the insidious,
Inexorable last sleep.
Strange how like life
The ending of it. Always the road lay plain
Under your feet, and you marched whistling on,
April in heart and heels. And then the first
Wet snowflake tongued your cheek, and suddenly
You found the sun was gone, and the road, and only
Sagebrush and rock, with little dunes of snow
Growing to leeward. What man could say surely
Where life went wrong?
He was no longer cold,
But Christ! how tired, tired! Why not lie down
One little minute—pretending not to know
That minute would be always? Oh, he'd heard
The musty, moral counsel: “Never lie down;
Never give up; go under fighting”—wrest
The ultimate possible inch of frayed existence
From the grim shears. So even dying, it seemed,
Had its conventions. Well, he'd flouted others,
Why not one final gesture?
God, how good
Was rest, just rest! Would men keep up the struggle
If they could guess? Fate was a wolf at your heels
And a buzzard wheeling above; but turn at last
And wolf and buzzard were gone, or never had been
Save in your egocentric terror. Fate
Was storm and tide and lightning, indifferent,
Inexorable, and aloof, and not concerned
In hounding you. And there was peace for wise men
Who learned as much.
No wolf-cry now on the wind—
No buzzard wings above him. Rather a music
Of mad, barbarian fiddles, and a spinning
Of dervish dancers. So his shabby years
Closed with a certain splendor after all.
How like the living of life was the leaving of it:
Blundering on to doom, as he had blundered
Since birth; the highway lost; the goal forgotten—
And yet incorrigibly finding beauty
Somewhere … somewhere … always …
Wheeling over him, waiting to pick his bones—
This was the end, he guessed, and chuckled a bit
To find himself, at the end of all, still thinking
Incorrigibly in metaphors.
Strange, though,
For death to come so casually on him, after
All the sonorous phrases he had scribbled
Of its dark majesty: a balky motor
That mocked his tinkering, ever maladroit
At tools, or trade, or anything but words;
And then the sudden, sibilant, spiteful fury
Of snow—in April!
He should never have left
The car—thus wisdom told him, tardy as always.
Yet it had seemed that any fool might find
That homestead shack, with road and fence to guide him.
And then the fence had dwindled out, and with it
The road, and the snow thickened, bludgeoning, blinding him,
Hobbling his feet in a nightmare sloth. And soon
Sleep would come on him, the insidious,
Inexorable last sleep.
Strange how like life
The ending of it. Always the road lay plain
Under your feet, and you marched whistling on,
April in heart and heels. And then the first
Wet snowflake tongued your cheek, and suddenly
You found the sun was gone, and the road, and only
Sagebrush and rock, with little dunes of snow
Growing to leeward. What man could say surely
Where life went wrong?
He was no longer cold,
But Christ! how tired, tired! Why not lie down
One little minute—pretending not to know
That minute would be always? Oh, he'd heard
The musty, moral counsel: “Never lie down;
Never give up; go under fighting”—wrest
The ultimate possible inch of frayed existence
From the grim shears. So even dying, it seemed,
Had its conventions. Well, he'd flouted others,
Why not one final gesture?
God, how good
Was rest, just rest! Would men keep up the struggle
If they could guess? Fate was a wolf at your heels
And a buzzard wheeling above; but turn at last
And wolf and buzzard were gone, or never had been
Save in your egocentric terror. Fate
Was storm and tide and lightning, indifferent,
Inexorable, and aloof, and not concerned
In hounding you. And there was peace for wise men
Who learned as much.
No wolf-cry now on the wind—
No buzzard wings above him. Rather a music
Of mad, barbarian fiddles, and a spinning
Of dervish dancers. So his shabby years
Closed with a certain splendor after all.
How like the living of life was the leaving of it:
Blundering on to doom, as he had blundered
Since birth; the highway lost; the goal forgotten—
And yet incorrigibly finding beauty
Somewhere … somewhere … always …