It was very quiet.
The peasant whose lot is to sow and to reap,
The herdsman who climbs with his goats up the steep,
The beggar who wandered in search of his bread,
Have faded away like the grass that we tread.
There was much more than the words in the reading.
The group about the fire saw the peasant, saw the herdsman. They saw the saint who enjoyed the communion of heaven and the sinner who dared to remain unforgiven. There in the quiet of the night beside the ashes and the flames, he was making all these live—and go their short way.
So the multitude goes—like the flowers or the weeds
So the multitude comes, even these we behold,
To repeat every tale that has ever been told
Kit Parsons punched the fire. Buck Thompson reached for a bottle and drew his hand back empty.
We are the same that our fathers have been,