The Bombardment (Amy Lowell Poem)
Slowly, without force, the rain drops into the city. It stops a moment on the carved head of Saint John, ...
Slowly, without force, the rain drops into the city. It stops a moment on the carved head of Saint John, ...
Pale, with the blue of high zeniths, shimmered over with silver, brocaded In smooth, running patterns, a soft stuff, with ...
Goaded and harassed in the factory That tears our life up into bits of days Ticked off upon a clock ...
I own a solace shut within my heart, A garden full of many a quaint delight And warm with drowsy, ...
I walk down the garden paths, And all the daffodils Are blowing, and the bright blue squills. I walk down ...
THE BRICKLAYER: I tell this tale, which is strictly true, Just by way of convincing you How very little, since ...
Er-Heb beyond the Hills of Ao-Safai Bears witness to the truth, and Ao-Safai Hath told the men of Gorukh. Thence ...
Me that 'ave been what I've been -- Me that 'ave gone where I've gone -- Me that 'ave seen ...
Cherry-ripe: dark sweet burlats, scarlet reverchons firm-fleshed and tart in the mouth bigarreaux, peach-and-white napoléons as the harvest moves north ...
'Whenever I plunge my arm, like this, In a basin of water, I never miss The sweet sharp sense of ...
Homage Kenneth Koch If I were doing my Laundry I'd wash my dirty Iran I'd throw in my United States, ...
Like the towel, the basin the foot washing We shared the bread, the wine, intimate sharing, disciple to disciple intoning ...
In the chapel, the community came together the disciples, all of us disciples slowing down, after the rush to arrive ...
I met a lady from the South who said (You won't believe she said it, but she said it): "None ...
The day after Christmas, young Albert Were what's called, confined to his bed, With a tight kind of pain in ...
There's a whisper down the line at 11.39 When the Night Mail's ready to depart, Saying "Skimble where is Skimble ...
The name -- of it -- is "Autumn" -- The hue -- of it -- is Blood -- An Artery ...
Whangaehu waters, hot-spilled from the cauldron of Crater Lake, swirling mud-green from the cup between Tahurangi and Pyramid Peak, sulphurous, ...
For more than a billion years we've been nearly out of water; sincerely, a need repeatedly exposed in calamitous reports ...
a stone at dawn cold water in the basin these walls' rough plaster imageless after the hammering of so much ...
I approach with such a careful tremor, always I feel the finally foolish question of how it is, then, supposed ...
This Sycamore, oft musical with bees,-- Such tents the Patriarchs loved ! O long unharmed May all its ag?d boughs ...
It's not that the Muse feels like clamming up, it's more like high time for the lad's last nap. And ...
It's not that the Muse feels like clamming up, it's more like high time for the lad's last nap. And ...
I came back late and tired last night Into my little room, To the long chair and the firelight And ...
THE PUDDING MASTER OF STANLEY BASIN Tree, snow and rock beginnings, the mountain in back of the lake promised us ...
THE AUTOPSY OF TROUT FISHING IN AMERICA This is the autopsy of Trout Fishing in America as if Trout Fishing ...
GAT ye me, O gat ye me, O gat ye me wi' naething? Rock an reel, and spinning wheel, A ...
The still explosions on the rocks, the lichens, grow by spreading, gray, concentric shocks. They have arranged to meet the ...
As if you actually died in that dream and woke up dead. Shadows of untangling vines tumble toward the ceiling. ...
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