Richard BoneWhen I first came to Spoon RiverI did not know whether what they told meWas true or false.They would bring me the epitaphAnd stand around the shop while I workedAnd say “He was so kind,” “He was so wonderful,”“She was the sweetest woman,” “He was a consistent Christian.”And I chiseled for them whatever they wished,All in ignorance of the truth.But later, as I lived among the people here,I knew how near to the lifeWere the epitaphs that were ordered for them as they died.But still I chiseled whatever they paid me to chiselAnd made myself party to the false chroniclesOf the stones,Even as the historian does who writesWithout knowing the truth,Or because he is influenced to hide it.
When I first came to Spoon RiverI did not know whether what they told meWas true or false.They would bring me the epitaphAnd stand around the shop while I workedAnd say “He was so kind,” “He was so wonderful,”“She was the sweetest woman,” “He was a consistent Christian.”And I chiseled for them whatever they wished,All in ignorance of the truth.But later, as I lived among the people here,I knew how near to the lifeWere the epitaphs that were ordered for them as they died.But still I chiseled whatever they paid me to chiselAnd made myself party to the false chroniclesOf the stones,Even as the historian does who writesWithout knowing the truth,Or because he is influenced to hide it.