My roof is slate, my windows look To east and westward over the town. My walls are phalanxes of books Whose thoughts march through me, up and down. On streets about me stands a church Whose bell sounds over the wind's tone, A factory whose whistle shrieks That men should live by bread alone. Yet well they know they cannot -- for It is not bread they want most, But foods not to be had save through A holy -- or unholy -- ghost. I say this while the rain falls, I say it while the wind blows, I say it though what hearts should say No heart knows. |