Skunk Hour (Robert Lowell Poem)
For Elizabeth Bishop Nautilus Island's hermit heiress still lives through winter in her Spartan cottage; her sheep still graze above ...
For Elizabeth Bishop Nautilus Island's hermit heiress still lives through winter in her Spartan cottage; her sheep still graze above ...
This is the place. Stand still, my steed, Let me review the scene, And summon from the shadowy Past The ...
As you plaited the harvest bow You implicated the mellowed silence in you In wheat that does not rust But ...
It nests in the hollow of my pelvis, I carry it with both hands, as if offering my stomach, as ...
On a sunny brae, alone I lay One summer afternoon; It was the marriage-time of May With her young lover, ...
Karshish, the picker-up of learning's crumbs, The not-incurious in God's handiwork (This man's-flesh he hath admirably made, Blown like a ...
Boot, saddle, to horse and away! Rescue my Castle, before the hot day Brightens to blue from its silvery gray, ...
Boot, saddle, to horse, and away! Rescue my Castle, before the hot day Brightens the blue from its silvery grey, ...
WHILE winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw, An' bar the doors wi' driving snaw, An' hing us owre the ingle, I ...
None lives for ever, brother, and nothing lasts for long. Keep that in mind and rejoice. Our life is not ...
Oh you are coming, coming, coming, How will hungry Time put by the hours till then? -- But why does ...
I. WINTER IN NORTHUMBERLAND OUTSIDE the garden The wet skies harden; The gates are barred on The summer side: "Shut ...
Maiden most beautiful, mother most bountiful, lady of lands, Queen and republican, crowned of the centuries whose years are thy ...
Heed me, feed me, I am hungry, I am red-tongued with desire; Boughs of balsam, slabs of cedar, gummy fagots ...
'Tis hard to say, if greater Want of Skill Appear in Writing or in Judging ill, But, of the two, ...
Mother, mother, what ill-bred aunt Or what disfigured and unsightly Cousin did you so unwisely keep Unasked to my christening, ...
Summer grows old, cold-blooded mother. The insects are scant, skinny. In these palustral homes we only Croak and wither. Mornings ...
"Here we dwell, in holiest bowers, Where angels of light o'er our orisans bend; Where sighs of devotion and breathings ...
Nay, tell me not, dear, that the goblet drowns One charm of feeling, one fond regret; Believe me, a few ...
What life like that of the bard can be -- The wandering bard, who roams as free As the mountain ...
No more of talk where God or Angel guest With Man, as with his friend, familiar us'd, To sit indulgent, ...
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