Read as you will in any of the books, The details of the thing, the questions and answers, How sometimes Brown would walk, sometimes was carried, At first would hardly plead, half-refused counsel, Accepted later, made up witness-lists, Grew fitfully absorbed in his defense, Only to flare in temper at his first lawyers And drive them from the case. Questions and answers, Wheels creaking in a void. Sometimes he lay Quiet upon his cot, the hawk-eyes staring. Sometimes his fingers moved mechanically As if at their old task of sorting wool, Fingertips that could tell him in the dark Whether the wool they touched was from Ohio Or from Vermont. They had the shepherd’s gift. It was his one sure talent. Questions creaking Uselessly back and forth. No one can say That the trial was not fair. The trial was fair, Painfully fair by every rule of law, And that it was made not the slightest difference.