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Over back where they speak of life as staying
('You couldn't call it living, for it ain't'),
There was an old, old house renewed with paint,
And in it a piano loudly playing.
Out in the plowed ground in the cold a digger,
Among unearthed potatoes standing still,
Was counting winter dinners, one a hill,
With half an ear to the piano's vigor.
All that piano and new paint back there,
Was it some money suddenly come into?
Or some extravagance young love had been to?
Or old love on an impulse not to care--
Not to sink under being man and wife,
But get some color and music out of life?
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Comments
Life is just 'staying' for people who stand still on the earth, counting the winter dinners and giving half an ear to the piano's strength. The poet does not want people to end up their lives just finishing their marital lives. He wants all to find the true colors and music out of their lives, and 'live' their lives.
Rajesh Venkatesan from India