This life in London -- what a waste Of time and comfort, in this place; With all its noise, and nothing seen But what is stone or human face. Twigs thin and bare, like sparrows' legs. Yet back to Nature I must go -- To see the thin, mosquito flakes Grow into moths of plumper snow. What is this life if, like bad clocks, We keep no time and are but going; What is my breath worth when I hear A hundred horns and whistles blowing. The rushing cars that crunch their way, Still followed by the heavy carts; Till I, with all my senses stunned, Am deafened to my very thoughts. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE REAR-GUARD by SIEGFRIED SASSOON THE WANING MOON by PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY PEARLS OF THE FAITH: 54. AL-KAWI by EDWIN ARNOLD THE ASYLUM by WILLIAM ROSE BENET LOVE RIDES DISGUISED by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT TIME'S PENDULUM by GRACE O. BOLSTAD HINC LACHRIMAE; OR THE AUTHOR TO AURORA: 46 by WILLIAM BOSWORTH |