On my walk today I came upon
this narrow park along the street,
wild trees and shrubs pressing in
from a creek on the other side.

At intervals on the brick-lined walk-way
stand waist-high bronze pedestals,
an open book atop each one
glassed over for protection

depicting the life
of my nation’s greatest dramatist,
who created his finest work
a few miles from this spot.

Suddenly, from out of the great
suburbanization of America,
there came a sense of place—
all spots not interchangeable—

of ground hallowed, in this land
that so few saints have trod,
by O”Neill’s bleeding
steps toward truth.

With gratitude I wiped
the dust from those glass pages,
and felt his struggles
validate my own.

Max Reif

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/12aug1-homage-to-eugene-o-neill/