Section iv of The Dwelling Place
I have not changed any of my views on Agrarianism since the appearance of I’ll Take My Stand [1930]. . . . I never thought of Agrarianism as a restoration of anything in the Old South; I saw it as something to be created, as I think it will be in the long run as the result of a profound change . . . in the moral and religious outlook of western man.—Allen Tate, 1952
And then three hundred years ago there came
Out of the coastal South’s depleted fields
Long salted by the Atlantic’s windblown foam
Wagons of yeoman farmers—Irish, Scots,
Welsh, English—freehold kindred!—to a land
They cleared of virgin cypress, longleaf pine,
Their cabins made of notched logs, timbers squared,
Of local oak and native hickory,
Their acres staked by grave- and boundary-stones,
Corn golden grown without the old corn gods,
Cradles and chairs both rocking by the hearth,
The only book they needed their King James
In this far place they sought to flee a king,
The family tree whose branches bloom and fruit
Between the Testaments, their matter blessed
And ringing true, those stories timeless, new,
The marriages and births, baptisms, deaths,
Ur-stems of every sur- and given name,
Preserved as well by untaught chroniclers
Who kept the weathered ledgers, journals, notes,
Tied letters, clipped obituaries, curls,
Printed or cursive words, each deep-inked page,
Crude portraits framed by genealogies,
The tall tales handed down by mouth and ear,
The Highland tunes transposed to these low hills,
Legends for wide-eyed hearers by the fire,
Their cedar chests’ quilts, ribbons—keepsake worlds,
A black slate’s chalky numbers, ABCs,
The facts of gossip mixed with gossip’s lore,
Plain histories of the meadow and the lane:
And when in time they tore their cabins down
They put up manors worthy of the land,
Farmhouses made for living, not for show,
The boulder-stones dug up, bricks shaped from clay
Shoveled from steep red walls of river bluff,
No foreign architect with fine designs,
Just neighbors and themselves, with knowing guess,
The feel of right and rightness in the thing,
Of heft and touch and balance, grain and cut,
No etched designs or compass, leveling plumb,
Old-school their only rule, the rule of thumb,
Like pinching this and that in recipes,
No granite from Carrara or New York,
No balcony or widow’s walk or dome,
Parlor, gazebo, secret garden, maze
But kitchen, bedroom, living room, and hearth
Near which they dined, a long-benched table planed,
Porch swings that raised their parlance toward the stars,
A southern drawl so slow it almost paused
Before a stillness gracious and sedate
Even when pests and weather made them fail:
And there for years they showed, undispossessed,
Set hospitalities of sweat and blood,
Earned gifts that virtue’s manners yet demand,
Pouring out water cold and pure from wells,
Buckets pulled up, spilling from hidden springs,
Abundance on the table’s high-piled plates
For travelers unnumbered and unnamed
No porter looked down on or turned away,
No walled hortus inclusus, gated, barred,
But unlocked doors that opened to a knock,
The ample board that fed them if they stayed—
Tomatoes picked, potatoes dug that day,
Cream-mantled milk drawn mornings, ready cows
That only death could sunder from a dream,
The sudden nothingness beneath their sleep,
Late autumn slaughtering, the pail and blade,
Cobs hollowed for a pipe stem’s smoking-bowl,
Churned butter chilled, then melting gold on gold
In window-light come tawny from the corn,
Bacon from hogs coaxed forth toward slop and knife,
The bass that sometimes struck a baitless hook,
Baked pies scenting the kitchen’s windowsills,
Cool orchard-winds blown in to curl and go
Returning apple sweetness to the trees,
A table fit for governor or mayor,
Field hands, kinfolk, wayfarers where a prayer.
Would grace the fixings, leavings of each meal,
Salt pork and greens, pot licker, dipping bread,
The ladled gravy, mashed potatoes, peas—
Lady and purple hull—the honeyed ham,
And children taught their “Yes, Sir,” “Please,” and “Ma’am,”
Then, next day, farewells said, the turning back
To living roots they thought would never die—
And will not die until they die in me—
My father casting seeds before the dawn,
Plowing the earth the way his father plowed,
My mother tending garden, orchard, hens,
Whose new brown eggs lay wet and warm in straw,
Her fingers deft, adept to pull and loop,
Sewing with flax and cotton, carded, dyed
With petals, berries—cultivated, wild,
No ornamental myrtle-beds or planes
But marigolds and dogwoods bred and read
For beauty’s use, the book of leaf and bloom,
Home remedies of mint and sassafras,
By store-bought goods then setting little store
Except for what they could not make or raise—
Pens, paper, needles, coffee, sugar, ink
And panes to let the sun alone come in,
The light divine of Indians, Genesis—
Both sons and daughters helping when they knew—
Through hand-me-downs of craft and thrift and love
Binding mind and bone—the manners of the land,
All bearing in themselves the fruits they bore
From meadow, row, and pasture to a place
Where rank and worth were one when fathers carved
And served grandparents, mothers—children last—
Blessing the simple feast with simple words
They spoke once more in verses shaped and phrased
By Tyndale, Cranmer, Coverdale and all
Who heightened and tightened England’s common tongue
In Holy Writ for ages and the age,
Words learned by word of mouth and well-turned page
In house and church and school and court of law,
Heard best in pinewood chapels made of pine
By yeomen who still spoke as Shakespeare spake,
The Thames and Avon flowing in the Red,
Who, like the Caddo, built by river-creeks
In scattered hamlets, farmsteads set apart,
Provisioned by their labor, stock and ground,
Until past mere subsistence far enough
To grow a market-village for their crops
With cobbler, blacksmith, wheelwright—skills and wares
That matched their own—by barter, bill, and coin
Exchanging handicraft and shaking hands,
Their word made good by all they were and made:
And as they rode their wagons home again,
Wheels clacking in dry ruts or stuck in mud,
They sensed what only sense can wholly know,
Saying the grace of names each season brings—
Day-flowers blue and moist in April shade,
Pink morning glories winding toward the sun
On green June limbs of locust, elm, and gum,
September’s feather bells spread white in pines,
December’s mistletoe in bare pecans,
Red holly fruit the cedar waxwings love—
All speaking for themselves, the Maker’s way,
Things Englished that the Indians once named
In languages now lost as Adam’s tongue
When being gleamed and God’s first song was sung.
The views expressed at AbbevilleInstitute.org are not necessarily the views of the Abbeville Institute.
“Ax” for “ask,” “weef”for “with,” “heed” for “head” are not incorrect. They are preserved Shakespearean and Chaucerian English. Sadly, the ancient dialects of the British Isles are disappearing fast. They have been ridiculed and cleansed almost to the point of extinction, along with the culture so beautifully celebrated in this lovely poem.