Archibald HigbieI loathed you, Spoon River.I tried to rise above you,I was ashamed of you.I despised youAs the place of my nativity.And there in Rome, among the artists,Speaking Italian, speaking French,I seemed to myself at times to be freeOf every trace of my origin.I seemed to be reaching the heights of artAnd to breathe the air that the masters breathedAnd to see the world with their eyes.But still they’d pass my work and say:“What are you driving at, my friend?Sometimes the face looks like Apollo’sAt others it has a trace of Lincoln’s.”There was no culture, you know, in Spoon RiverAnd I burned with shame and held my peace.And what could I do, all covered overAnd weighted down with western soilExcept aspire, and pray for anotherBirth in the world, with all of Spoon RiverRooted out of my soul?
I loathed you, Spoon River.I tried to rise above you,I was ashamed of you.I despised youAs the place of my nativity.And there in Rome, among the artists,Speaking Italian, speaking French,I seemed to myself at times to be freeOf every trace of my origin.I seemed to be reaching the heights of artAnd to breathe the air that the masters breathedAnd to see the world with their eyes.But still they’d pass my work and say:“What are you driving at, my friend?Sometimes the face looks like Apollo’sAt others it has a trace of Lincoln’s.”There was no culture, you know, in Spoon RiverAnd I burned with shame and held my peace.And what could I do, all covered overAnd weighted down with western soilExcept aspire, and pray for anotherBirth in the world, with all of Spoon RiverRooted out of my soul?