YES, from the ingrate heart, the street Of garrulous tongue, the warm retreat Within the village and the town; Not from the lands where ripen brown A thousand thousand hills of wheat; Not from the long Burgundian line, The Southward, sunward range of vine. Hunted, He never will escape The flesh, the blood, the sheaf, the grape, That feed His man -- the bread, the wine. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...WOMAN'S INCONSTANCY by ROBERT AYTON LINES WRITTEN IN AN OVID by MATTHEW PRIOR CAMPS OF GREEN by WALT WHITMAN I HAVE PRAYED by JOHANNA AMBROSIUS SAINT MAY: A CITY LYRIC by JOSEPH ASHBY-STERRY EMBLEMS OF LOVE: 30. THE HUNTER CAUGHT BY HIS OWN GAMER by PHILIP AYRES AN INVENTORY OF THE FURNITURE IN DR. PRIESTLEY'S STUDY by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD |