IN that Suburban villa, trim and neat, Like fifty thousand other villas, all Your hopes lie centred. Treble voices call You father; and the sound of pattering feet Enchants your ear, while kisses quench defeat. Old aims are dead, and old ambitions pall Behind that hideous terra-cotta wall, Where life is narrow: narrow yet complete. You win to opulence by devious ways, Ways that you held in scorn until you knew How honour with domestic care decays. But we, who were your comrades, still pursue, With tired feet, the grand trunk-road of Art ... Is yours, or ours, old friend, the better part? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: MINERVA JONES by EDGAR LEE MASTERS IN A SWEDISH GRAVEYARD by EMMA LAZARUS SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: JAMES GARBER by EDGAR LEE MASTERS PEOPLE'S SURROUNDINGS by MARIANNE MOORE GOOD FRIDAY HYMN by GEORGE SANTAYANA SURFACE AND STRUCTURE: BONAVENTURE HOTEL, LOS ANGELES by KAREN SWENSON |