I, who have known wide spaces and the sweep of hills High-flung against the sky, Now go with dark-quenched sight through narrow streets, unstill And swift. This is not I. Not I, who watched the terraced flame of sunset climb The unforgetting west, And now glimpse only color over roofs, from time To time and find no rest. This is not I, this grey, uncaring soul who goes Between the city walls, A sightless ghost, transplanted, out of place, who knows Unanswered desert calls. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...O SLEEP, MY BABE! by SARA COLERIDGE THE DESERTED VILLAGE by OLIVER GOLDSMITH THE RECONCILEMENT by JOHN SHEFFIELD LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT by HELEN SELINA SHERIDAN MYRMIDONES: THE WOUNDED EAGLE by AESCHYLUS TRANSITION by MIRIAM BARRANGER CANTIC. CHAP. 2 by JOSEPH BEAUMONT |