by Robert Penn Warren

    [ A ]

    Long ago， in Kentucky， I， a boy， stood

    By a dirt road， in first dark， and heard

    The great geese hoot northward.

    I could not see them， there being no moon

    And the stars sparse.  I heard them.

    I did not know what was happening in my heart.

    It was the season before the elderberry blooms，

    Therefore they were going north.

    The sound was passing northward.

    [ B ]

    Tell me a story.

    In this century， and moment， of mania，

    Tell me a story.

    Make it a story of great distances， and starlight.

    The name of the story will be Time，

    But you must not pronounce its name.

    Tell me a story of deep delight.