Marie Bateson (Edgar Lee Masters Poems)
You observe the carven handWith the index finger pointing heavenward.That is the direction, no doubt.But how shall one follow it?It ...
You observe the carven handWith the index finger pointing heavenward.That is the direction, no doubt.But how shall one follow it?It ...
1. Had the ham bone, had the lentils, Got to meat store for the salt pork, Got to grocery for ...
People who live by the sea understand eternity. They copy the curves of the waves, their hearts beat with the ...
YES, write, if you want to, there's nothing like trying; Who knows what a treasure your casket may hold? I'll ...
To Ezra Pound These are the names of the companies that have made money from this war nineteenhundredsixtyeight Annodomini fourthousand ...
The Bible, the ultimate frequently cited authority, the basis for the arguments over and over again. A legal term of ...
Under the canopy over the lake on the flat surface of the pier next to the boat moored there I ...
Just over the horizon a great machine of death is roaring and rearing. One can hear it always. Earthquake, starvation, ...
We will make our meek adjustments, Contented with such random consolations As the wind deposits In slithered and too ample ...
Cedars and the westward sun. The darkening sky. A man alone Watches beside the fallen wall The evening multitudes of ...
HIS face with smile eternal drest, Just like the Landlord's to his Guest's, High as they hang with creaking din, ...
Rain drenches the patio stones. All night was spent waiting for an earthquake, and instead water stains sand with its ...
The Argument. Rintrah roars & shakes his fires in the burdend air; Hungry clouds swag on the deep Once meek, ...
FROM pent-up, aching rivers; From that of myself, without which I were nothing; From what I am determin'd to make ...
The correct death is written in. I will fill the need. My bow is stiff. My bow is in readiness. ...
I am the faythfull deputy Unto your fading memory. Your Index long in search doth hold; Your folded wrinkles make ...
(To Mrs. Edward MacDowell) No sound of any storm that shakes Old island walls with older seas Comes here where ...
Pierre Bonnard would enter the museum with a tube of paint in his pocket and a sable brush. Then violating ...
Nobody rests This one constantly shifts his eyes Hangs them on his head And whether he wants it or not ...
1 We, whose lungs fill with the sweetness of day. Who in May admire trees flowering Are better than those ...
You observe the carven hand With the index finger pointing heavenward. That is the direction, no doubt. But how shall ...
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