POEMS
BLOW, WEST WIND
I know, I know-though the evidence
Is lost, and the last who might speak are dead.
Blow, west wind, blow, for the evidence, 0,
Is lost, and wind shakes the cedar, and 0,
I know how the kestrel hung over Wyoming,
Breast reddened in sunset, and 0, the cedar
Shakes, and I know how cold
Was the sweat on my father's mouth, dead.
Blow, west wind, blow, shake the cedar, I know
How once I, a boy, crouching at creekside,
Watched,
in
the sunlight, a handful of water
Drip, drip, from my hand. The drops-they were bright!
But you believe nothing, the evidence lost.
Robert Penn Warren
