To sit in the absent father's solemn chair, Grey with flowers, that he left behind Is to sit again in the absent father's lap. So, too, to take up his tapping pipe And to puff long thoughts all the purple afternoon Is to rekindle the father's mind amid his ashen grave. Notice, the pollarded oaks grow more nobly For their nicks. So, too, like velvet antlers wetted, Green thoughts effloresce from your pained brow. Your brow which is "so like your father's At your age." Or would be, were comparison possible In the August evening's lingering light, eons on From father's final step through the cool foyer door Where, in a corner, his ratty umbrella leans unmolested-- Abstract blacks cordially folded like a spider, Cobwebbed in the shadowless light of stars.