Even after the letters, there is work,
sweaters, the food, the shoes
and afternoon’s quick dark

draws on the windowpane
my face, the shadowed hair,
the scattered papers fade.

Slow letters! I shall be
always—the stranger said
“To live stronger and free!”

I know in America there are songs,
forgetful ballads to be sung,
but at home I see this wrong.

When I see my family house,
the gay gorge, the picture-books,
they raise the face of General Wise

aged by enemies, like faces
the stranger showed me in the town.
I saw that plain, and saw my place.

The scene of hope’s ahead;. look, April,
and next month with a softer wind,
maybe they’ll rest upon their land,
and then maybe the happy song, and love,
a tall boy who was never in a tunnel.