1777 (Amy Lowell Poem)
I The Trumpet-Vine Arbour The throats of the little red trumpet-flowers are wide open, And the clangour of brass beats ...
I The Trumpet-Vine Arbour The throats of the little red trumpet-flowers are wide open, And the clangour of brass beats ...
Only one old post is standing -- Solid yet, but only one -- Where the milking, and the branding, And ...
An hour before the sun goes down Behind the ragged boughs, I go across the little run And bring the ...
When the swans turned my sister into a swan I would go to the lake, at night, from milking: The ...
The piper coming from far away is you With a whitewash brush for a sporran Wobbling round you, a kitchen ...
I was swaying, nodding to the words to the words of the pastors, different styles, different books, different verses but ...
Thoughts of walking in a winter wonderland with her. She wrote, "I like snow when it is falling. All clean ...
Out of the woods by the creek cometh a calling for Peter, And from the orchard a voice echoes and ...
The mountain held the town as in a shadow I saw so much before I slept there once: I noticed ...
I In my beginning is my end. In succession Houses rise and fall, crumble, are extended, Are removed, destroyed, restored, ...
"Morning" -- means "Milking" -- to the Farmer -- Dawn -- to the Teneriffe -- Dice -- to the Maid ...
IN simmer, when the hay was mawn, And corn wav'd green in ilka field, While claver blooms white o'er the ...
'TWAS on a Monday morning, Right early in the year, That Charlie came to our town, The young Chevalier. Chorus.-An' ...
I asked nothing, only stood at the edge of the wood behind the tree. Languor was still upon the eyes ...
From noiseful arms, and acts of prowess done In tournament or tilt, Sir Percivale, Whom Arthur and his knighthood called ...
When man, enters woman, like the surf biting the shore, again and again, and the woman opens her mouth with ...
There's a drip of honeysuckle in the deep green lane; There's old Martin jogging homeward on his worn old wain; ...
"Black is the sky, but the land is white-- (O the wind, the snow and the storm!)-- Father, where is ...
FLANDERS, the name of a place, a country of people, Spells itself with letters, is written in books. "Where is ...
A Gaelic bard they praise who in fourteen adjectives Named the one indivisible soul of his glen; For what are ...
By this part of the century few are left who believe in the animals for they are not there in ...
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