Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.
BindlestiffEdwin Ford Piper
Oh, the lives of men, lives of men,
In pattern-molds be run;
But there’s you, and me, and Bindlestiff—
And remember Mary’s Son.
Into a brightening sky. The grass bent low
With shimmering dew, and many a late wild rose
Unrolled the petals from its odorous heart
While birds held tuneful gossip. Suddenly,
Each bubbling trill and whistle hid away
As from a hawk; the fragrant silence heard
Only the loving stir of little leaves;
Then a man’s baritone broke roughly in:
Skimmed my mulligan stew;
Laid beneath the barren hedge—
Sleety night-winds blew.
Sun bakes my skin;
Rocky road for my limping feet,
Door where I can’t go in.
From the hidden singer’s fire. Once more the voice:
When I worked on the grading gang;
But the boss was a crook, and he docked my pay—
Some day that boss will hang.
Try to save my dough—
It’s a bellyful of the chaff of life,
Feet that up and go.
Into the road slid Bindlestiff. You’ve seen
The like of the traveller: gaunt humanity
In stained and broken coat, with untrimmed hedge
Of rusty beard and curling sunburnt hair;
His hat, once white, a dull uncertain cone;
His leathery hands and cheeks, his bright blue eyes
That always see new faces and strange dogs;
His mouth that laughs at life and at himself.
Dark, and a filthy cell;
I hope the fellows built them jails
Find ’em down in hell.
Feed you like a king;
You never have to saw no wood,
Only job is sing.
The tramp limped off trailing the hobo song:
K. C., and Denver, too;
Put my foot on the flying freight,
Going to ride her through.
Showed stick and bundle with his extra shoes
Jauntily dangling. Bird to bird once more
Made low sweet answer; in the wild rose cups
The bee found yellow meal; all softly moved
The white and purple morning-glory bells
As on the gently rustling hedgetop leaves
The sun’s face rested. Bindlestiff was gone.
In pattern-molds be run;
But there’s you, and me, and Bindlestiff—
And remember Mary’s Son.