The Book of Hours of Sister Clotilde (Amy Lowell Poem)
The Bell in the convent tower swung. High overhead the great sun hung, A navel for the curving sky. The ...
The Bell in the convent tower swung. High overhead the great sun hung, A navel for the curving sky. The ...
A music-stand of crimson lacquer, long since brought In some fast clipper-ship from China, quaintly wrought With bossed and carven ...
What charm is yours, you faded old-world tapestries, Of outworn, childish mysteries, Vague pageants woven on a web of dream! ...
Paul Jannes was working very late, For this watch must be done by eight To-morrow or the Cardinal Would certainly ...
There are who lord it o'er their fellow-men With most prevailing tinsel: who unpen Their baaing vanities, to browse away ...
ENDYMION. A Poetic Romance. "THE STRETCHED METRE OF AN AN ANTIQUE SONG." INSCRIBED TO THE MEMORY OF THOMAS CHATTERTON. Book ...
NOT in the world of light alone, Where God has built his blazing throne, Nor yet alone in earth below, ...
The body of Christ, the church, universal a shimmering, living fabric, precious threads, unique and special, woven together with love ...
I stayed the night for shelter at a farm Behind the mountains, with a mother and son, Two old-believers. They ...
Impossibility, like Wine Exhilarates the Man Who tastes it; Possibility Is flavorless -- Combine A Chance's faintest Tincture And in ...
The livid lightnings flashed in the clouds; The leaden thunders crashed. A worshipper raised his arm. "Hearken! Hearken! The voice ...
'O cast away your sorrow; -- A while, at least, be gay! If grief must come tomorrow, At least, be ...
'Twas at that hour of beauty when the setting sun squandereth his cloudy bed with rosy hues, to flood his ...
SIT stilla worda breath may break (As light airs stir a sleeping lake,) The glassy calm that soothes my woes, ...
How changed is here each spot man makes or fills! In the two Hinkseys nothing keeps the same; The village ...
ROSALIND, HELEN, and her Child. SCENE. The Shore of the Lake of Como. HELEN Come hither, my sweet Rosalind. 'T ...
I I doubt if ten men in all Tilbury Town Had ever shaken hands with Captain Craig, Or called him ...
Lead me, Sicilian Maids, to haunted bow'rs, While yon pale moon displays her faintest beams O'er blasted woodlands, and enchanted ...
"Seldom we find," says Solomon Don Dunce, "Half an idea in the profoundest sonnet. Through all the flimsy things we ...
This, then, is she, My mother as she looked at seventeen, When she first met my father. Young incredibly, Younger ...
But, learning now that they would have her speak, She threw her wet hair backward from her brow, Her hand ...
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