The Daft-days (Robert Fergusson Poems)
Now mirk December's dowie faceGlours our the rigs wi' sour grimace,While, thro' his minimum of space,The bleer-ey'd sunWi' blinkin light ...
Now mirk December's dowie faceGlours our the rigs wi' sour grimace,While, thro' his minimum of space,The bleer-ey'd sunWi' blinkin light ...
Without knowing my number,enclosed by walls and borders,I walk around with a prisoner's moonand perpetual shadow chained to my ankle.Living ...
Walk past those houses on a Sunday morningwhere pianos stumble in front rooms,mechanics freed from tools take shearsto clip their ...
(Translated from the French by David Gascoyne)The feet of morning the feet of noon and the feet of eveningwalk ceaselessly ...
Again the world goes open like a girl's roomFrom the white remotenesses street scenes come sailing upworkers with alum hands ...
I had tramped along through dockland till the day was all but spent,But for all the ships I there did ...
Long lines of ships at moorings used to lieBesides the wharves of 'Frisco. All the dayThe chipping hammers rang upon ...
Burning, he walks in the stream of flickering letters, clarinets, machines throbbing quicker than the heart, lopped-off heads, silk canvases, ...
(With the usual.)IIn winter I get up at night,And dress by an electric light.In summer, autumn, ay, and spring,I have ...
348I dreaded that first Robin, so,But He is mastered, now,I'm accustomed to Him grown,He hurts a little, though-I thought If ...
I dreaded that first Robin, so, But He is mastered, now, I'm accustomed to Him grown, He hurts a little, ...
To be a great musician you must be a man of moods, You have to be, to understand sonatas and ...
I The bitterness. the misery, the wretchedness of childhood Put me out of love with God. I can't believe in ...
ARMOUR AVENUE was the name of this street and door signs on empty houses read "The Silver Dollar," "Swede Annie" ...
In my dream, Celebrity, four pianos scored the room, and you -- on an antique sofa near two dark-haired innocents ...
Another search for Leichhardt's tomb, Though fifty years have fled Since Leichhardt vanished in the gloom, Our one Illustrious Dead! ...
Who carved this shattered harp on my stone? I died to you, no doubt. But how many harps and pianos ...
Burning, he walks in the stream of flickering letters, clarinets, machines throbbing quicker than the heart, lopped-off heads, silk canvases, ...
Brooklyn, 1929. Of course Crane's been drinking and has no idea who this curious Andalusian is, unable even to speak ...
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