The Way (Amy Lowell Poem)
At first a mere thread of a footpath half blotted out by the grasses Sweeping triumphant across it, it wound ...
At first a mere thread of a footpath half blotted out by the grasses Sweeping triumphant across it, it wound ...
Why listen, even the water is sobbing for something. The west wind is dead, the waves Forget to hate the ...
Greeted by one of my brothers standing in the sanctuary aisle not understanding what he meant when he said it ...
By the flowerbed the violets sheltered already blooming movement catching my eye The honeybee early working as it does gathering ...
The sunset shouted the other night the glory of God the lilies of the valley whispered this morning the glory ...
Like canary dandruff, no, make that yellow pepper, freshly ground and served at your table a dust, large grained, adorning ...
There is poetry where you live in the real-time, living of our lives little bits of grace, of beauty, of ...
Yellow dust, a patina of pollen covering the cars below the ancient oak planted long before the city grew, the ...
Rolling in the pollen, gathering the nectar a bumblebee at work, on the job capturing in my viewfinder, discovered again ...
Trying to capture the aerialists on their perches, the loosestrife enticing them all to the pollen Trying to freeze the ...
We needed the break the change back from the heat too soon for the eighties scorched and hot cloudbursts, sheets ...
Can we believe -- by an effort comfort our hearts: it is not waste all this, not placed here in ...
They tell me that your heart has been found in Iowa, pumping along Interstate 35. Do you want it back? ...
Fall's leaves are redder than spring's flowers, have no pollen, and also sometimes fly, as the wind schools them out ...
In the house made of dawn. In the story made of dawn. On the trail of dawn. O, Talking God. ...
Two girls there are : within the house One sits; the other, without. Daylong a duet of shade and light ...
Frost apple on a knotted whirling bough of dark becoming where it cannot be. So much both for the soil ...
I am not the piston in the flower or The bulging seed throttled by pollen But a separate figure expectant ...
When I got to his marker, I sat on it, like sitting on the edge of someone's bed and I ...
Hard seeds of hate I planted That should by now be grown,- Rough stalks, and from thick stamens A poisonous ...
Down, you mongrel, Death! Back into your kennel! I have stolen breath In a stalk of fennel! You shall scratch ...
As you descend, slowly, falling faster past you this snow, ghostly, some flakes bio- luminescent (you plunge, and this lit ...
THE moon is now an opening flower, The sky a cliff of blue. The moon is now a silver rose; ...
What time I paced, at pleasant morn, A deep and dewy wood, I heard a mellow hunting-horn Make dim report ...
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