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 ...
I The inkstand is full of ink, and the paper lies white and unspotted, in the round of light thrown ...
Sobre el cielo de las margaritas ando. Yo imagino esta tarde que soy santo. Me pusieron la luna en las ...
In the long, sleepless watches of the night, A gentle face -- the face of one long dead -- Looks ...
Why is that wanton gossip Fame So dumb about this man's affairs? Why do we titter at his name Who ...
Fill for me a brimming bowl And in it let me drown my soul: But put therein some drug, designed ...
Byron! how sweetly sad thy melody! Attuning still the soul to tenderness, As if soft Pity, with unusual stress, Had ...
Dear Colette, I want to write to you about being a woman for that is what you write to me. ...
Drunk, I kissed the moon where it stretched on the floor. I'd removed happiness from a green bottle, both sipped ...
Where are you, my beloved? Are you in that little Paradise, watering the flowers who look upon you As infants ...
"Soyez muette pour moi, Idole contemplative..." I came home and found a lion in my living room Rushed out on ...
A burst of familiar motion racing down from the chancel to my pew A very serious angel needing to go ...
Life is simple. In my canoe. Strokes in the water propel me forward. I chart my course around the cove. ...
A hush fell over the congregation lights dimmed, cloaking us all A glow grew, pew by pew Candles clutched be ...
The Baron has decided to mate the monster, to breed him perhaps, in the interests of pure science, his only ...
This salt-stain spot marks the place where men lay down their heads, back to the bench, and hoist nothing that ...
There is a section in my library for death and another for Irish history, a few shelves for the poetry ...
In most self-portraits it is the face that dominates: Cezanne is a pair of eyes swimming in brushstrokes, Van Gogh ...
I open my eyes, yes, it's the house where I was born, Exactly as it was and nothing more. The ...
In your hidden memories There are fatal tidings of doom... A curse on sacred traditions, A desecration of happiness; And ...
"Ah, did you once see Shelley plain?" -- Browning. "Shelley? Oh, yes, I saw him often then," The old man ...
A Fragment of a Turkish Tale The tale which these disjointed fragments present, is founded upon circumstances now less common ...
Si credere dignum est.--Virgil, Georgics, III, 390 Oh, worthy of belief I hold it was, Virgil, your legend in those ...
Some of us believe We would have conceived romantic Love out of our own passions With no precedents, Without songs ...
God knows how our neighbor managed to breed His great sow: Whatever his shrewd secret, he kept it hid In ...
A dream tree, Polly's tree: a thicket of sticks, each speckled twig ending in a thin-paned leaf unlike any other ...
You never heard tell of the story? Well, now, I can hardly believe! Never heard of the honour and glory ...
Kind solace in a dying hour! Such, father, is not (now) my theme- I will not madly deem that power ...
The word goes round Repins, the murmur goes round Lorenzinis, at Tattersalls, men look up from sheets of numbers, the ...
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