In me is a little painted square Bordered by old shops with gaudy awnings. And before the shops sit smoking, open-bloused old men, Drinking sunlight. The old men are my thoughts; And I come to them each evening, in a creaking cart, And quietly unload supplies. We fill slim pipes and chat And inhale scents from pale flowers in the center of the square. Strong men, tinkling women, and dripping, squealing children Stroll past us, or into the shops. They greet the shopkeepers and touch their hats or foreheads to me. Some evening I shall not return to my people. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...WORK WITHOUT HOPE by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE THE ADMIRABLE CONVERSION OF S. PAUL by JOSEPH BEAUMONT ON THE VIRGINITY OF THE VIRGIN MARY AND JOHANNA SOUTHCOTT by WILLIAM BLAKE AN EVENING PROSPECT by ANN ELIZA BLEECKER |