HOW can the village dead remain so still... Surely they tingle with the winey air, When the skies riot and the sunsets flare And all the world becomes a flaming hill. Surely the driest dust must turn and thrill When these wild breezes sweep out all despair— And lakes are bluest, pools are starriest where The streaming heavens overflow and spill. Oh, were it I that lay like any clod, Though buried under rock and gnarlèd tree, I would arise, and, through the clinging sod, Go struggling upward, passionate and proud; Laugh, with the winds and mountains watching me, And dance in triumph on my crumbling shroud. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ELEGY FOR AN ENEMY by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET DOWN BY THE CARIB SEA: 4. THE LOTTERY GIRL by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON READING WHITMAN IN A TOILET STALL by TIMOTHY LIU EPITAPH IN A CHURCH-YARD IN CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA by AMY LOWELL THE NEW APOCRYPHA: BUSINESS REVERSES by EDGAR LEE MASTERS |