RECESSIONAL FOR A COW DRIVER
The goad of Goshen, in his muddy boots,
Rides in a varnished box to meet his Maker,
Secure of his eternal, narrow acre,
Sure of his cabin under the tangled roots;
Hickory bludgeon and the handy rock Lie still, for all of him, and there is left Only the bottle in the pear-tree cleft,
The jackknife tally on the rifle stock.
Now on the trodden hills his wandering cry,
Blaspheming all strayed heifers in a word,
Knits with the hoof-beat; and his fugitive face Troubles the road, when hidden winds go by Prodding the slow dust in a tawny herd Like ragged cattle toward the market place.