William Cain

When William Cain came back to CentrevilleThe first time since the day he left his peopleHe found that storms had halved the Baptist steepleAnd a spring flood had carried off the mill

And though he found a few old sweethearts still,Each apple cheek he once had pressed his lip inWas puckered like a sour Winter PippinIn which the worms of time had worked their will.

But sadder somehow in these meetings wasThe sudden thought that took him unaware:How high-arched feet that danced upon the grassOr raced along the roadways brown and bareHad sagged beneath the growing weight of careTo plod flat-footed like a spavined mare.