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Return Al Stewart Appalachian Heritage, Volume 8, Number 4, Fall 1980, p. 61 (Article) Published by The University of North Carolina Press DOI: https://doi.org/10.1353/aph.1980.0019 For additional information about this article https://muse.jhu.edu/article/441600/summary Access provided at 19 Feb 2020 23:16 GMT from JHU Libraries RETURN Nothing has changed here. Nothing at all. Everything looks Just as it did before I went away. Here is the usual earth, The indifferent birds, the greetings casual as the skies, The surly loneliness of guarded mirth. And here is the spring I have always known. Flowers explode Ancestral joy from folded thunder of the hills. Rain, In timeless deference, flows ointment or acid on the spendthrift year. Here is autumn's new presentiment of old pain. I meet in the deadened streets, or country lanes, the customary faces, Lighted with wonder or broken with wonder, all wanderers in the trance Of individual time. If some have died, I do not know. Their places Have been filled by others directed from a similar stance. Here, where once I dreamed the lasting leaf while seasons dissolved Like stain in the phenomenal year's clear circuit, the bridge may fall In the slow earthquake of decay, and going away I may http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Appalachian Review University of North Carolina Press

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Stewart, Albert, --.
Appalachian Review , Volume 8 (4) – Jan 8, 2014
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Publisher
University of North Carolina Press
Copyright
Copyright © Berea College
ISSN
2692-9244
eISSN
2692-9287

Abstract

Al Stewart Appalachian Heritage, Volume 8, Number 4, Fall 1980, p. 61 (Article) Published by The University of North Carolina Press DOI: https://doi.org/10.1353/aph.1980.0019 For additional information about this article https://muse.jhu.edu/article/441600/summary Access provided at 19 Feb 2020 23:16 GMT from JHU Libraries RETURN Nothing has changed here. Nothing at all. Everything looks Just as it did before I went away. Here is the usual earth, The indifferent birds, the greetings casual as the skies, The surly loneliness of guarded mirth. And here is the spring I have always known. Flowers explode Ancestral joy from folded thunder of the hills. Rain, In timeless deference, flows ointment or acid on the spendthrift year. Here is autumn's new presentiment of old pain. I meet in the deadened streets, or country lanes, the customary faces, Lighted with wonder or broken with wonder, all wanderers in the trance Of individual time. If some have died, I do not know. Their places Have been filled by others directed from a similar stance. Here, where once I dreamed the lasting leaf while seasons dissolved Like stain in the phenomenal year's clear circuit, the bridge may fall In the slow earthquake of decay, and going away I may

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Appalachian Review – University of North Carolina Press

Published: Jan 8, 2014

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