. . . and the children's teeth shall be set on edge. br br I see him old, trapped in a burly house br Cold in the angry spitting of a rain br Come down these sixty years. br br Why vehemently br Astride the threshold do I wait, marking br The ice softly pendent on his broken temple? br Upon the silence I cast the mesh of rancor br By which the gentler convergences of the flesh br Scatter untokened, mercilessly estopped. br br Why so illegal these tears? br br The years' incertitude and br The dirty white fates trickling br Blackly down the necessary years br Define no attitude to the present winter, br No mood to the cold matter. br br (I remember my mother, my mother, br A stiff wind halted outside, br In the hard ear my country br Was a far shore crying br With invisible seas) br br When tomorrow pleads the mortal decision br Sifting rankly out of time's sieve today, br No words differently will be uttered br Nor stuttered, like sheep astray. br br A pauper in the swift denominating br Of a bald cliff with a proper name, having words br As strumpets only, I cannot beat off br Invincible modes of the sea, hearing: br br Be a man my son by God. br br He turned again br To the purring jet yellowing the murder story, br Deaf to the pathos circling in the air.