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(Nous n'irons plus au bois) No more walks in the wood: The trees have all been cut Down, and where once they stood Not even a wagon rut Appears along the path Low brush is taking over. No more walks in the wood; This is the aftermath Of afternoons in the clover Fields where we once made love Then wandered home together Where the trees arched above, Where we made our own weather When branches were the sky. Now they are gone for good, And you, for ill, and I Am only a passer-by. We and the trees and the way Back from the fields of play Lasted as long as we could. No more walks in the wood.

Way down upon de Swanee ribber, Far, far away, Dere’s wha my heart is turning ebber, Dere’s wha de old folks stay. All up and down de whole creation, Sadly I roam, Still longing for de old plantation, And for de old folks at home. All de world am sad and dreary, Ebry where I roam, Oh! darkeys how my heart grows weary, Far from de old folks at home. All round de little farm I wandered When I was young, Den many happy days I squandered, Many de songs I sung. When I was playing wid my brudder Happy was I—. Oh! take me to my kind old mudder, Dere let me live and die. All de world am sad and dreary, Ebry where I roam, Oh! darkeys how my heart grows weary, Far from de old folks at home. One little hut among de bushes, One dat I love, Still sadly to my mem’ry rushes, No matter where I rove When will I see de bees a humming All round de comb? When will I hear de banjo tumming Down in my good old home? All de world am sad and dreary, Ebry where I roam, Oh! darkeys how my heart grows weary, Far from de old folks at home.

W'en daih's chillun in de house, Dey keep on a-gittin' tall; But de folks don' seem to see Dat dey's growin' up at all, 'Twell dey fin' out some fine day Dat de gals has 'menced to grow, W'en dey notice as dey pass Dat de front gate's saggin' low. W'en de hinges creak an' cry, An' de bahs go slantin' down, You kin reckon dat hit's time Fu' to cas' yo' eye erroun', 'Cause daih ain't no 'sputin' dis, Hit's de trues' sign to show Dat daih's cou'tin goin' on W'en de ol' front gate sags low. Oh, you grumble an' complain, An' you prop dat gate up right; But you notice right nex' day Dat hit's in de same ol' plight. So you fin' dat hit's a rule, An' daih ain' no use to blow, W'en de gals is growin' up, Dat de front gate will sag low. Den you t'ink o' yo' young days, W'en you cou'ted Sally Jane, An' you so't o' feel ashamed Fu' to grumble an' complain, 'Cause yo' ricerlection says, An' you know hits wo'ds is so, Dat huh pappy had a time Wid his front gate saggin' low. So you jes' looks on an' smiles At 'em leanin' on de gate, Tryin' to t'ink whut he kin say Fu' to keep him daih so late, But you lets dat gate erlone, Fu' yo' 'sperunce goes to show, 'Twell de gals is ma'ied off, It gwine keep on saggin' low.

Year after year after year I have come to love slowly how old houses hold themselves— before November’s drizzled rain or the refreshing light of June— as if they have all come to agree that, in time, the days are no longer a matter of suffering or rejoicing. I have come to love how they take on the color of rain or sun as they go on keeping their vigil without need of a sign, awaiting nothing more than the birds that sing from the eaves, the seizing cold that sounds the rafters.

Aunt Martha bustles From room to room Between attic and basement, With duster and broom. Like an oven grenade, In cobwebby corners Her broom explodes A babel of wonders. Her summer crusade Havocs the bugs. Like an enfilade, She rakes the rugs. The sound and fury Of table and bed Whirs a panic of sparrows To the oaks overhead. Untenable grows The vast of the house For even the ghost Of Lazarus’ mouse. The fogies convert Back fences to staffs And sow their gossip With Pharisee laughs: Aunt Martha’s scowl Is a lithograph’s. As the fogies watch Her attic lairs Jettison the junk Of heirloom wares, She shouts: “Old houses Need cleaning upstairs!”

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down! Long has it waved on high, And many an eye has danced to see That banner in the sky; Beneath it rung the battle shout, And burst the cannon’s roar;— The meteor of the ocean air Shall sweep the clouds no more! Her deck, once red with heroes’ blood Where knelt the vanquished foe, When winds were hurrying o’er the flood And waves were white below, No more shall feel the victor’s tread, Or know the conquered knee;— The harpies of the shore shall pluck The eagle of the sea! O, better that her shattered hulk Should sink beneath the wave; Her thunders shook the mighty deep, And there should be her grave; Nail to the mast her holy flag, Set every thread-bare sail, And give her to the god of storms,— The lightning and the gale!

Of all the people in the mornings at the mall, it’s the old liberators I like best, those veterans of the Bulge, Anzio, or Monte Cassino I see lost in Automotive or back in Home Repair, bored among the paints and power tools. Or the really old ones, the ones who are going fast, who keep dozing off in the little orchards of shade under the distant skylights. All around, from one bright rack to another, their wives stride big as generals, their handbags bulging like ripe fruit. They are almost all gone now, and with them they are taking the flak and fire storms, the names of the old bombing runs. Each day a little more of their memory goes out, darkens the way a house darkens, its rooms quietly filling with evening, until nothing but the wind lifts the lace curtains, the wind bearing through the empty rooms the rich far off scent of gardens where just now, this morning, light is falling on the wild philodendrons.

When my aunt died, my uncle raised his hands like a prophet in the Bible. “I've lost my girl,” he said, “I've lost my girl,” over and over, shaking his head. I didn't know what to say, where to look, my quiet uncle raising his voice to silence. My aunt was eighty-seven. “Listen,” my uncle said, sighing like a tree alone at night, “women know. Every midnight on New Year's Eve, when others sang and laughed and hugged, your aunt looked at me, tears in her eyes. Sixty years. She knew. One day, we'd kiss good-bye.”

In my heart the old love Struggled with the new, It was ghostly waking All night through. Dear things, kind things That my old love said, Ranged themselves reproachfully Round my bed. But I could not heed them, For I seemed to see Dark eyes of my new love Fixed on me. Old love, old love, How can I be true? Shall I be faithless to myself Or to you?

This is the factory Where they manufacture old maids At one end of the assembly line The women are jostled into their places They wonder where they are going What will happen to them One says, “Where is my sister?” But the foreman is not permitted to answer First she will be hollowed out Her juices extracted Her natural organs replaced By parts she is not permitted to name Her five senses Are replaced by substitutes Guaranteed non-inflammable Non-toxic Her sister is replaced by a substitute At the end of the assembly line The old maid minces out Into what she calls America She has forgotten she is a woman She has no sister In her shriveled brain Something murmurs that life is an accident She wonders how it happened to her