Rachel Lyman Field
Poems of Rachel Lyman Field
And the Place Thereof
This small house fitted him like some square shell
Weathered and worn, as if it somehow bore
His very likeness, but no smoke thread mounts;
He will not stand in greeting at the door
As he stood, gaunt and smiling, three days back.
He has no need now of the wood he piled;
The water pail and dipper, the small store
Of china on the shelf; the rocker there.
The bed-quilt will not warm him any more