My city! How the younger poets mock With present praise thine unrevealed soul! Surely with scorn thou hear'st their raptures roll, Nor will to their small minds thy mind unlock. Not with such clamoring casuists can I flock; Black witch who ere my birth my future stole, With fury that I care not to control I hate thee and the children of thy stock! I hate thee and I cry it to the world! And in return thy uncouth savage love, O lewd amorphous mystery, I feel! For when at last thy loftiest towers are huried Hell-ward, of all who mourn thy ruins above, My grief alone, thou knowest, will be real. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE YANKEE PRIVATEER by ARTHUR HALE THE WOODSPURGE by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI YOU DON'T BELIEVE by WILLIAM BLAKE THE OLD COVE by HENRY HOWARD BROWNELL IN THE FOREST by MAURICE BUCHOR SPRING AND WINTER by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON |