FAR rolls the broad Missouri's ochre flood, Low hang the misty curtains of the sky, The world lies moist and penitent beneath The lingering tears of Morning's storm of grief. The tall gaunt monks of human industry Draw low around their heads their smoky cowls Where, in the grimy sweating Shrines of Toil, The Priests of Labor watch their altar fires. Around upon the high encircling hills The steps of man have left their prints in stone, In lines of gray hard avenues of trade, In piles of rugged granite, roughly hewn To build new hills and hollow cavern homes For cave-men of the twentieth century. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE WAY OF THE CONVENTICLE OF THE TREES by HAYDEN CARRUTH LEFT-HANDED POEM by JAMES GALVIN GOOD-BYE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON SEPULCHRE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON SOLDIER by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON TO RICHARD R. WRIGHT - INSTRUCTOR by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON |