There is music in me, the music of a peasant people. I wander through the levee, picking my banjo and singing my songs of the cabin and the field. At the Last Chance Saloon I am as welcome as the violets in March; there is always food and drink for me there, and the dimes of those who love honest music. Behind the railroad tracks the little children clap their hands and love me as they love Kris Kringle. But I fear that I am a failure. Last night a woman called me a troubadour. What is a troubadour? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...OUR CAMP; IN THE AUTUMN WOODS by ROBERT FROST TO A MOTH SEEN IN WINTER by ROBERT FROST SLEEPING TOGETHER by KATHERINE MANSFIELD THE AWAKENING RIVER by KATHERINE MANSFIELD HER EYES by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON |