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HOMAGES WalterArmistead Remember: not making Memory climb the mind, as he The half-dead rustling-still ofsummer tree, But come, amazed with love, to stand, this hour dissolved Upon him years away, The axe lashed to his wrist. Upright and braced in my head Two hundred yards from me, as then, He sets the tingling arches ofhis feet On two great boughs, and swings. I hear the dead limbs fall, and, At every stroke, like Time to cut him down, An axe within the wood knock back. Those were the years we thought ofbeing men, And we must labor for it, hauling ourselves up ropes, Running long hours in the woods, Swinging our mauls and axes till we shook, And afterwards, our muscles stunned with blood, Coming back to the summer ofthe house, and the room Where, in a harp oflight, the great harp leant. Then he would play Parts ofthe missing music Ofthe dead limbs on the lawn. It was a thing I since have made him say: would not have thought of, then, Walter Armistead / 43 ...

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