They are nothing but sifted Sand in the folds Of round hills lifted, I think, from molds, So smoothly they rise, And so grittily sound The names -- Pengrise, Trelithick, Germound -- Of the flint-gray places Beneath and between. Hear the wind on their faces Keeping them keen! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE SELF-SEEKER by ROBERT FROST TO THE WHITE FIENDS by CLAUDE MCKAY LALLA ROOKH: PARADISE AND THE PERI by THOMAS MOORE THE BOUNDARIES OF APPRECIATION by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS |