For
Lincoln
MacVeagh
Never
tell
me
that
not
one
star
of
all
That
slip
from
heaven
at
night
and
softly
fall
Has
been
picked
up
with
stones
to
build
a
wall.
Some
laborer
found
one
faded
and
stone-cold,
And
saving
that
its
weight
suggested
gold
And
tugged
it
from
his
first
too
certain
hold,
He
noticed
nothing
in
it
to
remark.
He
was
not
used
to
handling
stars
thrown
dark
And
lifeless
from
an
interrupted
arc.
He
did
not
recognize
in
that
smooth
coal
The
one
thing
palpable
besides
the
soul
To
penetrate
the
air
in
which
we
roll.
He
did
not
see
how
like
a
flying
thing
It
brooded
ant
eggs,
and
bad
one
large
wing,
One
not
so
large
for
flying
in
a
ring,
And
a
long
Bird
of
Paradise's
tail
(Though
these
when
not
in
use
to
fly
and
trail
It
drew
back
in
its
body
like
a
snail):
Nor
know
that
be
might
move
it
from
the
spot—
The
harm
was
done:
from
having
been
star-shot
The
very
nature
of
the
soil
was
hot
And
burning
to
yield
flowers
instead
of
grain,
Flowers
fanned
and
not
put
out
by
all
the
rain
Poured
on
them
by
his
prayers
prayed
in
vain.
He
moved
it
roughly
with
an
iron
bar,
He
loaded
an
old
stoneboat
with
the
star
And
not,
as
you
might
think,
a
flying
car,
Such
as
even
poets
would
admit
perforce
More
practical
than
Pegasus
the
horse
If
it
could
put
a
star
back
in
its
course.
He
dragged
it
through
the
plowed
ground
at
a
pace
But
faintly
reminiscent
of
the
race
Of
jostling
rock
in
interstellar
space.
It
went
for
building
stone,
and
I,
as
though
Commanded
in
a
dream,
forever
go
To
right
the
wrong
that
this
should
have
been
so.
Yet
ask
where
else
it
could
have
gone
as
well,
I
do
not
know—I
cannot
stop
to
tell:
He
might
have
left
it
lying
where
it
fell.
From
following
walls
I
never
lift
my
eye,
Except
at
night
to
places
in
the
sky
Where
showers
of
charted
meteors
let
fly.
Some
may
know
what
they
seek
in
school
and
church,
And
why
they
seek
it
there;
for
what
I
search
I
must
go
measuring
stone
walls,
perch
on
perch;
Sure
that
though
not
a
star
of
death
and
birth,
So
not
to
be
compared,
perhaps,
in
worth
To
such
resorts
of
life
as
Mars
and
Earth—
Though
not,
I
say,
a
star
of
death
and
sin,
It
yet
has
poles,
and
only
needs
a
spin
To
show
its
worldly
nature
and
begin
To
chafe
and
shuffle
in
my
calloused
palm
And
run
off
in
strange
tangents
with
my
arm,
As
fish
do
with
the
line
in
first
alarm.
Such
as
it
is,
it
promises
the
prize
Of
the
one
world
complete
in
any
size
That
I
am
like
to
compass,
fool
or
wise.
