The Dinner-Party (Amy Lowell Poem)
Fish "So . . ." they said, With their wine-glasses delicately poised, Mocking at the thing they cannot understand. "So ...
Fish "So . . ." they said, With their wine-glasses delicately poised, Mocking at the thing they cannot understand. "So ...
1903 After Boer War Duly with knees that feign to quake-- Bent head and shaded brow,-- Yet once again, for ...
To draw no envy, Shakespeare, on thy name Am I thus ample to thy book and fame; While I confess ...
Wise men in their bad hours have envied The little people making merry like grasshoppers In spots of sunlight, hardly ...
The deer were bounding like blown leaves Under the smoke in front the roaring wave of the brush-fire; I thought ...
A dying firelight slides along the quirt Of the cast iron cowboy where he leans Against my father's books. The ...
"Caliban, Trinculo, My insolent mates, Don't you know me?" It is Stephano. Pour me another mug of mead To block ...
In the prologue to her Alexiad, Anna Comnena laments her widowhood. Her soul is dizzy. "And with rivers of tears," ...
Under what withering leprous light The very grass as hair is grey, Grass in the cracks of the paven courts ...
Nothing was remembered, nothing forgotten. When we awoke, wagons were passing on the warm summer pavements, The window-sills were wet ...
Now that I have your face by heart, I look Less at its features than its darkening frame Where quince ...
Cedars and the westward sun. The darkening sky. A man alone Watches beside the fallen wall The evening multitudes of ...
O THOU, whose sober precepts can controul The wild impatience of the troubled soul, Sweet Nymph serene ! whose all-consoling ...
Come, my songs, let us express our baser passions. Let us express our envy for the man with a steady ...
I I have loved England, dearly and deeply, Since that first morning, shining and pure, The white cliffs of Dover ...
How did you feel, you libertarians, Who spent your talents rallying noble reasons Around the saloon, as if Liberty Was ...
When we are old and these rejoicing veins Are frosty channels to a muted stream, And out of all our ...
The quick sparks on the gorse bushes are leaping, Little jets of sunlight-texture imitating flame; Above them, exultant, the peewits ...
"...his poems that no one reads anymore become dust, wind, nothing, like the insolent colored shirt he bought to die ...
"He could not forget that he was a Sidney." Is this Sir Philip Sidney, this ...
A little colt - broncho, loaned to the farm To be broken in time without fury or harm, Yet black ...
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