Over back where they speak of life as staying ('You couldn't call it living, for it ain't'), There was an old, old house renewed with paint, And in it a piano loudly playing. Out in the plowed ground in the cold a digger, Among unearthed potatoes standing still, Was counting winter dinners, one a hill, With half an ear to the piano's vigor. All that piano and new paint back there, Was it some money suddenly come into? Or some extravagance young love had been to? Or old love on an impulse not to care-- Not to sink under being man and wife, But get some color and music out of life? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE QUALITY OF COURAGE by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET IF IT WERE NOT FOR YOU by HAYDEN CARRUTH THE IMPOSSIBLE INDISPENSIBILITY OF THE ARS POETICA by HAYDEN CARRUTH TWILIGHT COMES by HAYDEN CARRUTH THE SACRAL DREAMS OF RAMON FERNANDEZ by JAMES GALVIN GETHSEMANE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON |