No one I ever loved has died

But I cursed, as I should have troubled and tried,

More than I had, to speak, to speak. Now you.

You, who must never go like this, have gone.

I am writing to tell you how your work goes on.

They read the stories out loud, Steve, they read

Each other the sound of the words, the poems, they write

Letters to say Hey! Joe! have you heard, have you seen

The Devil and Daniel Webster? They know what you mean

When you give them America back with humorous pride.

They dreamed your Metropolitan Nightmare first,

But you wrote it. They've talked with Johnny Pye.

They say they have heard The Mountain Whippoorwill.

Their voices will never let your voice be still.

Like a legend, you told so tall a tale so true

We are there, we can hear the heroes lying to you,

Making it almost as good as when it was new.

Then you turned, talked, and we heard it again from you

Who had listened and smiled and written it down and died

Of the broadcasts, the war-work, the poetry set aside,

And the being young, and the being forty-four.

But it's all ahead of you, Steve. The sudden door

You stepped through you left blue wide to the day.

I see you in a great brightness walk away

Forever, as far as a man could see you going,

Under the tall American sky, and the grass blowing,

The wheat, and water, and birds and clouds blowing,

Names of the towns, names of the wars and men

Around you there as you find them all again.

Now you are there. I'm glad of a day in New York

We talked as we may not ever again of our work.

I remember you patient, passionate, busy, kind.

You have gone over the border into your mind,

Into your own country forever. Goodbye.

You had everything to die for, if you had to die.