HOW can the village dead remain so still... Surely they tingle with the winey air, When the skies riot and the sunsets flare And all the world becomes a flaming hill. Surely the driest dust must turn and thrill When these wild breezes sweep out all despair— And lakes are bluest, pools are starriest where The streaming heavens overflow and spill. Oh, were it I that lay like any clod, Though buried under rock and gnarlèd tree, I would arise, and, through the clinging sod, Go struggling upward, passionate and proud; Laugh, with the winds and mountains watching me, And dance in triumph on my crumbling shroud. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...HERITAGE by GWENDOLYN B. BENNETT OH! WEEP FOR THOSE by GEORGE GORDON BYRON SONG OF SAUL BEFORE HIS LAST BATTLE by GEORGE GORDON BYRON TORTOISE SHELL by DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE THE SHEPHEARDES CALENDER: MAY by EDMUND SPENSER THE ANGELS OF BUENA VISTA by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER A SONNET. ON THE DEATH OF SYLVIA by PHILIP AYRES MOCK EPITAPH ON MR. AND MRS. ESTLIN by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD |