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To the Dead in the Grave-Yard Under my Window

How can you lie so still? All day I watch
 
And never a blade of all the green sod moves
 
To show where restlessly you toss and turn,
 
And fling a desperate arm or draw up knees
 
Stiffened and aching from their long disuse;
 
I watch all night and not one ghost comes forth
 
To take its freedom of the midnight hour.
 
Oh, have you no rebellion in your bones?
 
The very worms must scorn you where you lie,
 
A pallid mouldering acquiescent folk,
 
Meek inhabitants of unresented graves.
 
Why are you there in your straight row on row
 
Where I must ever see you from my bed
 
That in your mere dumb presence iterate
 
The text so weary in my ears: ‘Lie still
 
And rest; be patient and lie still and rest.’
 
I’ll not be patient! I will not lie still!
 
There is a brown road runs between the pines,
 
And further on the purple woodlands lie,
 
And still beyond blue mountains lift and loom;
 
And I would walk the road and I would be
 
Deep in the wooded shade and I would reach
 
The windy mountain tops that touch the clouds.
 
My eyes follow but my feet are held.
 
Recumbent as you others must I too
 
Submit? Be mimic of your movelessness
 
With pillow and counterpane for stone and sod?
 
And if the many sayings of the wise
 
Teach of submission I will not submit
 
But with a spirit all unreconciled
 
Flash an unquenched defiance to the stars.
 
Better it is to walk, to run, to dance,
 
Better it is to laugh and leap and sing,
 
To know the open skies of dawn and night,
 
To move untrammel’d down the flaming noon,
 
And I will clamour it through weary days
 
Keeping the edge of deprivation sharp,
 
Nor with the pliant speaking on my lips
 
Of resignation, sister to defeat.
 
I’ll not be patient. I will not lie still.
 
And in ironic quietude who is
 
The despot of our days and lord of dust
 
Needs but, scarce heeding, wait to drop
 
Grim casual comment on rebellion’s end;
 
Yes;yes. . . Wilful and petulant but now
 
As dead and quiet as the others are.’
 
And this each body and ghost of you hath heard
 
That in your graves do therefore lie so still.
 
 
Saranac Lake, -
 
November - 1913
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