My unrest fumbles like a hand Along this slender street, Where walls made out of houses stand To hinder my retreat. And always there's a wall of smoke That rises ply on ply, And makes me one with prison folk Who may not view the sky. I've found no freedom here at all From walls in this grey town -- The street itself is but a wall That's lying down! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DEAD IN THE SIERRAS by CINCINNATUS HEINE MILLER GUINEVERE TO LANCELOT by ROBERT BATSON NEIGHBORS by ANNE MILLAY BREMER DEAF AND DUMB; A GROUP BY WOOLNER by ROBERT BROWNING THE ONLY ORNAMENT by PHOEBE CARY |