Where the bog ends, there, where the ground lips, lovely is love, not lonely. Land is love, round with it, where the hand is; wide with love, cleared scrubland, grain on a coin. Oh, the wheatfield, the rock-bound rubble; the untouched hills as a thigh smooth; the meadow. Not only the poor soil lovely, the outworn prairie, but the green upspringing, the lark-land, the promontory. A lung-born land, this, a breath spilling, scanned by the valvular heart, the field glasses. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...WHEN I HEARD AT THE CLOSE OF THE DAY by WALT WHITMAN DOT LONG-HANDLED DIPPER by CHARLES FOLLEN ADAMS THE LAY OF THE LEGION by WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN SONNET: 19 by RICHARD BARNFIELD A CHRISTMAS SONG by WILLIAM COX BENNETT LORD ROBERTS by CHARLES WILLIAM BRODRIBB THE LAPSE OF TIME by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT THE RED BOX AT VESEY STREET by HENRY CUYLER BUNNER PROLOGUE FOR MRS. SUTHERLAND'S BENEFIT NIGHT by ROBERT BURNS |