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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE PRODIGAL SON by DAVID IGNATOW AUTUMN SONG by KATHERINE MANSFIELD RICHARD BOOTH TO HIS SON JUNIUS BRUTUS by EDGAR LEE MASTERS THE NEW APOCRYPHA: BUSINESS REVERSES by EDGAR LEE MASTERS INFERENTIAL by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON TONE PICTURE (MALIPIERO: IMPRESSONI DAL VERO) by JEAN STARR UNTERMEYER |