Despite distractions, imposed by city life,
My soul seems tranquil, freed of its strife,
But I would pity Henry David Thoreau,
If he were to see his brothers, living so.

Railroads are bad, he once insisted.
He was not aware of all he predicted.
He would be shocked, by a sniff of the breeze.
At the sight of modern man, he’d fall to his knees.

When seeing leveled hills, where trees did grow,
Trains might finally fill a need, for Henry David Thoreau.

Comments are closed.