Page:Collected poems Robinson, Edwin Arlington.djvu/187

 I do not know that I cared overmuch For Archibald's or anybody's oats, But Archibald was quite another thing, And Isaac yet another; and the world Was wide, and there was gladness everywhere. We walked together down the River Road With all the warmth and wonder of the land Around us, and the wayside flash of leaves, And Isaac said the day was glorious; But somewhere at the end of the first mile I found that I was figuring to find How long those ancient legs of his would keep The pace that he had set for them. The sun Was hot, and I was ready to sweat blood; But Isaac, for aught I could make of him, Was cool to his hat-band. So I said then Wiih a dry gasp of affable despair, ^Something about the scorching days we have In August without knowing it sometimes; But Isaac said the day was like a dream, And praised the Lord, and talked about the breeze. I made a fair confession of the breeze, And crowded casually on his thought The nearness of a profitable nook That I could see. First I was half inclined To caution him that he was growing old, But something that was not compassion soon Made plain the folly of all subterfuge. Isaac was old, but not so old as that. So I proposed, without an overture, That we be seated in the shade a while, And Isaac made no murmur. Soon the talk Was turned on Archibald, and I began To feel some premonitions of a kind