His face is quiet as a fable, and his hands
Are wise with death. He had known this hour was here
Under a moon’s phase, at an appointed season;
He had lived by law, by instinct, and by reason.
His era of metal and brawn is over and passed.
He crippled one. He wounded seven in the line of duty,
And cut a single notch to heal a wounded pride.
He sired nine. He owned the house in which he was born,
Two fat nags and forty-six acres of crows and corn.
Here are his days summed: vote, gun, offspring and enduring wife;
Here yellows his almanac of years, his full-flagged span of life.