YES, from the ingrate heart, the street Of garrulous tongue, the warm retreat Within the village and the town; Not from the lands where ripen brown A thousand thousand hills of wheat; Not from the long Burgundian line, The Southward, sunward range of vine. Hunted, He never will escape The flesh, the blood, the sheaf, the grape, That feed His man -- the bread, the wine. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CONTRA MORTEM: THE NOTHING II by HAYDEN CARRUTH THE QUILTING by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR THE LAST CHANTEY by RUDYARD KIPLING MIANTOWONA by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH THE LAST LANDLORD by ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN STOOD AT CLEAR by ALEXANDER ANDERSON THE WEDDING DAY; OR, THE BUCCANEER'S CURSE; A FAMILY LEGEND by RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM PSALM 51 by OLD TESTAMENT BIBLE TO A NEW YORK SHOP-GIRL DRESSED FOR SUNDAY by ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH |