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Over back
where they speak of life as staying
('You couldn't
call it living, for it ain't'),
There was an old, old
house renewed with paint,
And in it a piano loudly
playing.
Out in the plowed ground in the cold a
digger,
Among unearthed potatoes standing still,
Was counting winter dinners, one a hill,
With half an
ear to the piano's vigor.
All that piano and new
paint back there,
Was it some money suddenly come
into?
Or some extravagance young love had been to?
Or old love on an impulse not to care--
Not to
sink under being man and wife,
But get some color and
music out of life?
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