Of course there's a tree to listen to, And stars if you can hear them, And cattle breathing in the byre, And an ash falling from the fire. But what I mostly turn in bed To hear is the early wheat, Growing in the north meadow Under the late sleet. It isn't so much what it says I listen to -- not that; But just to the sound of growing Without thinking or knowing. Of course something must tell it how, But I have lived in cities Too long to know what does -- And that is a thousand pities. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...PLACE FOR A THIRD by ROBERT FROST JOY (1) by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON DOWN BY THE CARIB SEA: 5. THE DANCING GIRL by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON AQUATINT FRAMED IN GOLD by AMY LOWELL STUDY FOR A GEOGRAPHICAL TRAIL; 4. NEW JERSEY by CLARENCE MAJOR |