THE little villages along the way Are beads strung on a rustic rosary— We shrive our city souls in telling them, We tourists of the satin ribbon roads. So swift our eager wheels, we scarcely know Where one begins and where the other ends ... The small and prim, white painted houses stare In curiosity at us who pass So quickly by—and we look in at them, Beneath their elms, behind their hollyhocks, And set about with red geraniums— These reared, one knows, in odd and homely pots, In windows that yearned southward to the sun Through long and white and lonely winter months. The little houses seem so peaceful now— Would life in them not know serenity? Ah, surely, they hold quiet—yes, and peace! We look at them and sigh—and look again, As we speed on, back to the busy world ... Do wistful ones within, as we pass by, Peer from behind the hollyhocks—and sigh? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ONE WORD MORE by ROBERT BROWNING TWO WITCHES: 2. THE PAUPER WITCH OF GRAFTON by ROBERT FROST THE LITTLE GHOST by EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY SAPPHO AND PHAON: 2. THE TEMPLE OF CHASTITY by MARY DARBY ROBINSON |