Briefly It Enters, and Briefly Speaks (Jane Kenyon Poem)
I am the blossom pressed in a book, found again after two hundred years. . . . I am the ...
I am the blossom pressed in a book, found again after two hundred years. . . . I am the ...
An agitation of the air, A perturbation of the light Admonished me the unloved year Would turn on its hinge ...
They have little use. They are best as objects of torment. No government cares what you do with them. Like ...
The Missing All -- prevented Me From missing minor Things. If nothing larger than a World's Departure from a Hinge ...
Noon -- is the Hinge of Day -- Evening -- the Tissue Door -- Morning -- the East compelling the ...
Under what withering leprous light The very grass as hair is grey, Grass in the cracks of the paven courts ...
Today I pass the time reading a favorite haiku, saying the few words over and over. It feels like eating ...
Botticelli grinned with egg tempera congealed at the hinge of his lips Velasquez licked shine from an aubergine blackened in ...
As cats bring their smiling mouse-kills and hypnotised birds, slinking home under the light of a summer's morning to offer ...
A list of some observation. In a corner, it's warm. A glance leaves an imprint on anything it's dwelt on. ...
I. Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead! Sit and watch by her side an hour. That is her book-shelf, this her ...
1962 The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening ...
All right. Try this, Then. Every body I know and care for, And every body Else is going To die ...
The Sun, who never stops to dine, Two hours had pass'd the mid-way line, And driving at his usual rate, ...
Now Night came down, and rose full soon That patroness of rogues, the Moon; Beneath whose kind protecting ray, Wolves, ...
When once the twilight locks no longer Locked in the long worm of my finger Nor damned the sea that ...
Life and Thought have gone away Side by side, Leaving door and windows wide. Careless tenants they! All within is ...
standing in front of a mirror you recall it said: to hinge upon time is self-delusion tomorrows and days after, ...
Pale, at its ghastly noon, Pauses above the death-still wood--the moon; The night-sprite, sighing, through the dim air stirs; The ...
for Susan O'Neill Roe What a thrill ---- My thumb instead of an onion. The top quite gone Except for ...
Wheeling them in, the yard gate at half-mast with its ticking hinge, the tin bucket with a hairnet of webs, ...
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