WHY was I not devoured by self-contempt, And rotted down by indifference And impotent revolt like Indignation Jones? Why, with all of my errant steps, Did I miss the fate of Willard Fluke? And why, though I stood at Burchard's bar, As a sort of decoy for the house to the boys To buy the drinks, did the curse of drink Fall on me like rain that runs off, Leaving the soul of me dry and clean? And why did I never kill a man Like Jack McGuire? But instead I mounted a little in life, And I owe it all to a book I read. But why did I go to Mason City, Where I chanced to see the book in a window, With its garish cover luring my eye? And why did my soul respond to the book, As I read it over and over? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...BEFORE A STATUE OF ACHILLES by GEORGE SANTAYANA THE SONG MAKER by SARA TEASDALE PROTESTS (AFTER A PAINTING BY HUGO BALLIN) by LOUIS UNTERMEYER ON THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE by WILLIAM BROWNE (1591-1643) UP IN THE MORNING EARLY by ROBERT BURNS JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY (FROM A WESTERNER'S POINT OF VIEW) by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR SWITZERLAND by JAMES SHERIDAN KNOWLES SONNET WRITTEN IN THE FALL OF 1914: 1 by GEORGE EDWARD WOODBERRY A JEWISH FAMILY; IN A SMALL VALLEY OPPOSITE ST. GOAR by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH |