The talk begins. He's dressed in canvas khaki, flannel shirt, Laced boots for farming, chopping trees, perhaps; A stocky frame, curtains of skin on cheeks Drained slightly of their fat; gash in the neck Where pus was emptied lately; one eye dim, And growing dimmer; almost blind in that. And when he walks he rolls a little like A man whose youth is fading, like a cart That rolls when springs are old. He is a moose, Scarred, battered from the hunters, thickets, stones; Some finest tips of antlers broken off, And eyes where images of ancient things Flit back and forth across them, keeping still A certain slumberous indifference Or wisdom, it may be. But then the talk! Bronze dolphins in a fountain cannot spout More streams at once: Of course the war, the emperor, America in the war, his sons in France, The dangers, separation, let them go! The fate has been appointed--to our task, Live full our lives with duty, go to sleep! For I say, he exclaims, the man who fears To die should not be born, nor left to live. It's Celtic poetry, free verse. He says: You nobly celebrate in your Spoon River The pioneers, the soldiers of the past, Why do you flout our Philippine adventure? No difference, Colonel, in the stock, the difference Lies in the causes. Well, another stream: Mark Hanna, Quay and others, what I hate, He says to me, is the Pharisee--I can stand All other men. And you will find the men So much maligned had gentle qualities, And noble dreams. Poor Quay, he loved the Indians, Sent for me when he lay there dying, said, Look after such a tribe when I am dead. I want to crawl upon a sunny rock And die there like a wolf. Did he say that, Colonel, to you? Yes! and you know, a man Who says a thing like that has in his soul An orb of light to flash that meaning forth Of heroism, nature. Time goes on, The play is staged, must end; my taxi comes In half an hour or so. Before it comes, Let's walk about the farm and see my corn. A fellow on the porch is warming heels As we go by. I'll see him when you go, The Colonel says.