Portrait Number Five: Against A New York Summer (Jack Gilbert Poem)
I'd walk her home after work buying roses and talking of Bechsteins. She was full of soul. Her small room ...
I'd walk her home after work buying roses and talking of Bechsteins. She was full of soul. Her small room ...
We find out the heart only by dismantling what the heart knows. By redefining the morning, we find a morning ...
How astonishing it is that language can almost mean, and frightening that it does not quite. Love, we say, God, ...
When the King of Siam disliked a courtier, he gave him a beautiful white elephant. The miracle beast deserved such ...
Every morning the sad girl brings her three sheep and two lambs laggardly to the top of the valley, past ...
The fox pushes softly, blindly through me at night, between the liver and the stomach. Comes to the heart and ...
Poetry is a kind of lying, necessarily. To profit the poet or beauty. But also in that truth may be ...
Woke up suddenly thinking I heard crying. Rushed through the dark house. Stopped, remembering. Stood looking out at bright moonlight ...
Once upon a time I was sitting outside the cafe watching twilight in Umbria when a girl came out of ...
Suddenly this defeat. This rain. The blues gone gray And the browns gone gray And yellow A terrible amber. In ...
The Poles rode out from Warsaw against the German Tanks on horses. Rode knowing, in sunlight, with sabers, A magnitude ...
Love is apart from all things. Desire and excitement are nothing beside it. It is not the body that finds ...
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