HOW can the village dead remain so still... Surely they tingle with the winey air, When the skies riot and the sunsets flare And all the world becomes a flaming hill. Surely the driest dust must turn and thrill When these wild breezes sweep out all despair— And lakes are bluest, pools are starriest where The streaming heavens overflow and spill. Oh, were it I that lay like any clod, Though buried under rock and gnarlèd tree, I would arise, and, through the clinging sod, Go struggling upward, passionate and proud; Laugh, with the winds and mountains watching me, And dance in triumph on my crumbling shroud. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DOMESDAY BOOK: HENRY BAKER, AT NEW YORK by EDGAR LEE MASTERS WHEN LOVE WAS BORN by SARA TEASDALE OF TREASON by MARCUS VALERIUS MARTIALIS SONG OF THE PILGRIMS [SEPTEMBER 16, 1620] by THOMAS COGSWELL UPHAM THE WORLD'S DESIRE by WILLIAM ROSE BENET DEAR MINNA by MAXWELL BODENHEIM SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE: 17 by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING |