This is the village where we grew
Our fathers and their sires in line
The trees they planted shade the view
And the white houses shine.
The families here had come to stay
The preacher was the parson's son
And if one brother moved away
We kept the solid one.
We tended order in the town
Our lawns were trim, our hedges green
And in the countryside around
The furrows straight and clean
We went to church, obeyed the laws
And voted on election day.
The peaceful farms surrounded us
The battles always far away.
And when the soldiers came to town
With drums and our flag overhead,
We watched them from the commons lawn
Until they shot us dead.
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (Our Town by Ann Stanford )
- Slow Burner, fiona sinclair
- Trust, fiona sinclair
- Wonderland, fiona sinclair
- Inherited Friend, fiona sinclair
- The Quiet Room, fiona sinclair
- White Christmas, fiona sinclair
- When a sex symbol takes to sensible shoes, fiona sinclair
- Mohobbat gulaami, Saleem Zidi
- The reluctant bride and groom, fiona sinclair
- Fear, UMBELINA FROTA Linhares Pime ..
Poem of the Day
- 04 Tongues Made Of Glass, Shaun Shane
- Still I Rise, Maya Angelou
- Daffodils, William Wordsworth
- The Road Not Taken, Robert Frost
- Dreams, Langston Hughes
- If You Forget Me, Pablo Neruda
- Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night, Dylan Thomas
- Fire and Ice, Robert Frost
- All the World's a Stage, William Shakespeare
- Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, Robert Frost
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
- Heather Burns