It is a real place, Boston, I tell it to your face. And no dream of mine To ornament a line I can not come nearer to God & Heaven Than I live to Walden even. It is a part of me which I have not prophaned I live by the shore of me detained. Laden with my dregs I stand on my legs, While all my pure wine I to nature consign. I am its stoney shore And the breeze that passes o'er In the hollow of my hand Are its water and its sand; Its deepest resort Lies high in my thought. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A POISON TREE, FR. SONGS OF EXPERIENCE by WILLIAM BLAKE BROTHERS by GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS SAILING BEYOND SEAS (OLD STYLE) by JEAN INGELOW SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: THE HILL by EDGAR LEE MASTERS THE CANDLE by GHALIB IBN RIBAH AL-HAJJAM THE YOUNG RABBI by E. C. L. BROWNE THE STREAM OF LIFE by ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH LOVE, ALWAYS A TALKATIVE COMPANION by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE |