In cities you watch the way of wind with smoke And if you are country-born you think of trees Tossing their boughs, and doubt if factories Should ever be fed forests of ash and oak. You watch the way of rain, making a fog Of soot that sinks down from the chimney tops, And you think of mist over a meadow bog, And your heart remembering beauty almost stops. There is a little vale I once lived in, Just a white house or two, a store and a steeple, A street and a few lamp posts, where a road had been, And nothing so very wonderful as to people. But the blackbirds for uncounted years have returned To nest within the green night of its pines, And there isn't a heart for miles 'round but has learned Delights deeper than any a city divines. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TWO POEMS FROM THE WAR: 2 by ARCHIBALD MACLEISH THE BLIND by EDGAR LEE MASTERS TO BE LIKED BY YOU WOULD BE A CALAMITY by MARIANNE MOORE READY TO KILL by CARL SANDBURG I AM BORNE ONWARD by SARA TEASDALE FETES GALANTES: ROMANCES SANS PAROLE, SELECTION by PAUL VERLAINE |