The Little Street - Poem by Alan Sullivan
Listen. The clop of wooden soles still sounds
along this crudely cobbled alleyway,
a washerwoman sings a rondelet,
and two young truants haggle over rounds
of jacks. Somewhere an unseen bell resounds,
tolling the passage of an August day;
yet nothing moves. These shutters never sway.
These children never leave their checkered bounds
beside the entryway. The clouds diffuse
a dropp of rain or flush with sunset's blush.
No bargeman hauls; no windmill fills a sluice.
Upon some far-off field of war, a truce
as time stands still beneath the artist's brush.
Comments about The Little Street by Alan Sullivan
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You