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| SITTING in his rocker waiting for your tea, | |
| Gazing from his window, this is what you see: | |
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| A cat that snaps at flies; a track leading down | |
| By log-built shanties gray and brown; | |
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| The corner of a barn, and tangled lines of fence | 5 |
| Of rough-hewn pickets standing dense; | |
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| The ghost of a tree on a dull, wet day; | |
| And the blanket fog where lies the bay. | |
| |
| But when he’s seen the last of you, | |
| Sitting in his rocker, what’s his view? | 10 |
| |
| (For there he sits, day in, day out, | |
| Nursing his leg—and his dreams, no doubt.) | |
| |
| The snow-slide up behind the gaard; | |
| The farm beside old Trondjem fjord; | |
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| Daughters seven with their cold blue eyes, | 15 |
| And the great pine where his father lies; | |
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| The boat that brought him over the sea; | |
| And the toothless woman who makes his tea. | |
| |
| (Their picture, framed on the rough log wall, | |
| Proves she had teeth when he was tall.) | 20 |
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| He sees the balsam thick on the hill, | |
| And all he’s cleared with a stubborn will. | |
| |
| And last he sees the full-grown son | |
| For whom he hoards what he has won. | |
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| You saw little worth the strife: | 25 |
| What he sees is one man’s life. | |
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