“Eleven” by Archibald MacLeish
1 And
summer mornings the mute child, rebellious,
Stupid,
hating the words, the meanings, hating
The
Think now, Think, the Oh but Think! would leave
On
tiptoe the three chairs on the verandah
5 And
crossing tree by tree the empty lawn
Push
back the shed door and upon the sill
Stand
pressing out the sunlight from his eyes
And
enter and with outstretched fingers feel
The
grindstone and behind it the bare wall
10 And
turn and in the corner on the cool
Hard
earth sit listening. And one by one,
Out
of the dazzled shadow in the room,
The
shapes would gather, the brown plowshares, spades,
Mattocks,
the polished helves of picks, a scythe
15 Hung
from rafters, shovels, slender tines
Glinting
across the curve of sickle-shapes
Older
than men were, the wise tools, the iron
Friendly
with earth. And sit there, quiet, breathing
The
harsh dry smell of withered bulbs, the faint
20 Odor
of dung, the silence. And outside
Beyond
the half-shut door the blind leaves
And
the corn moving. And at noon would come,
Up
from the garden, his hard crooked hands
Gentle
with earth, his knees still earth-stained, smelling
25 Of
sun, of summer, the old gardener, like
A
priest, like an interpreter, and bend
Over
his baskets.
And
they would not speak:
They
would say nothing. And the child would sit there
30 Happy
as though he had no name, as though
He
had been no one: a leaf, a stem,
Like
a root growing—
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