The Perch (Galway Kinnell Poem)
There is a fork in a branch of an ancient, enormous maple, one of a grove of such trees, where ...
There is a fork in a branch of an ancient, enormous maple, one of a grove of such trees, where ...
Whenever I walk to Suffern along the Erie track I go by a poor old farmhouse with its shingles broken ...
The old woman sits on a bench before the door and quarrels With her meagre pale demoralized daughter. Once when ...
Elan that lifts me above the clouds into pure space, timeless, yea eternal Breath transmuted into words Transmuted back to ...
An image of the garden of the servant in the farmhouse praying for the seedlings that have already borne good ...
Out of the woods by the creek cometh a calling for Peter, And from the orchard a voice echoes and ...
There's a place called Far-away Meadow We never shall mow in again, Or such is the talk at the farmhouse: ...
I met a lady from the South who said (You won't believe she said it, but she said it): "None ...
Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village, though; He will not see me ...
Announced by all the trumpets of the sky, Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields, Seems nowhere to alight: ...
Because finally the personal is all that matters, we spend years describing stones, chairs, abandoned farmhouses- until we're ready. Always ...
As the salmon seeks its mother gravel through the lying ions of the sea, I seek you. Without your body ...
cold nights on the farm, a sock-shod stove-warmed flatiron slid under the covers, mornings a damascene- sealed bizarrerie of fernwork ...
Exposed on the cliffs of the heart. Look, how tiny down there, look: the last village of words and, higher, ...
Now listen to me and I'll tell you my views concerning the African war, And the man who upholds any ...
Why Brownlee left, and where he went, Is a mystery even now. For if a man should have been content ...
Oh! beautiful Oban with your lovely bay, Your surroundings are magnificent on a fine summer-day; There the lover of the ...
'Twas in the year 1815, and on the 18th day of June, That British cannon, against the French army, loudly ...
Under yonder beech-tree single on the green-sward, Couched with her arms behind her golden head, Knees and tresses folded to ...
Outside the afterlight's lucent rose Is smiting the hills and brimming the valleys, And shadows are stealing across the snows; ...
The pine woods on the hill, And the farmhouse miles away, Showed clear as though behind a lens Under a ...
That deaf old man With his hand to his ear-- His hand to hi head stood out like a shell, ...
Time collapses between the lips of strangers my days collapse into a hollow tube soon implodes against now like an ...
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