retirement poem

along a river-side
when a deed is done for freedom
is there anybody there
over the river, on the hill
daughter, thou art come to die
fat black bucks in a wine-barrel room
often i think of the beautiful town
though i am little as all little things
come down at dawn from windless hills
at dawn, he said
be patient, life, when love is at the gate
there is no flock, however watched and tended
out of the window a sea of green trees