Otherwise (Jane Kenyon Poem)
I got out of bed on two strong legs. It might have been otherwise. I ate cereal, sweet milk, ripe, ...
I got out of bed on two strong legs. It might have been otherwise. I ate cereal, sweet milk, ripe, ...
Now, moving in, cartons on the floor, the radio playing to bare walls, picture hooks left stranded in the unsoiled ...
My left hand will live longer than my right. The rivers of my palms tell me so. Never argue with ...
it's 1962 March 28th I'm sitting by the window on the Prague-Berlin train night is falling I never knew I ...
Where once we danced, where once we sang, Gentlemen, The floors are sunken, cobwebs hang, And cracks creep; worms have ...
Like the Rockwell paintings prepared in wartime we pause again this week in this season of conflict remembering the sacrifice ...
The cold in the air reminds me of the country fair the candied apple, the hot burnt sausage sub the ...
From art to law from beauty to pain a life with twists and turns bringing him home and bringing him ...
I became enthralled immersed in the imagery the depth of feeling sitting in the room of the gallery not seeing, ...
THE PROLOGUE. The Sompnour in his stirrups high he stood, Upon this Friar his hearte was so wood,* *furious That ...
Every month or so, Sundays, we walked the line, The limit and the boundary. Past the sweet gum Superb above ...
I He wakes in darkness. All around are sounds of stones shifting, locks unlocking. As if some one had lifted ...
(France -- Ancient Regime.) I. Go away! Go away; I will not confess to you! His black biretta clings like ...
I. You're my friend: I was the man the Duke spoke to; I helped the Duchess to cast off his ...
NO more wine? then we'll push back chairs and talk. A final glass for me, though: cool, i' faith! We ...
some say we should keep personal remorse from the poem, stay abstract, and there is some reason in this, but ...
As Parmigianino did it, the right hand Bigger than the head, thrust at the viewer And swerving easily away, as ...
they talk down through the centuries to us, and this we need more and more, the statues and paintings in ...
The deep parts of my life pour onward, as if the river shores were opening out. It seems that things ...
Music: breathing of statues. Perhaps: silence of paintings. You language where all language ends. You time standing vertically on the ...
Three months after he lies dead, that long yellow narrow body, not like Christ but like one of his saints, ...
Sprawl is the quality of the man who cut down his Rolls-Royce into a farm utility truck, and sprawl is ...
Once played to attentive faces music has broken its frame its bodice of always-weak laces the entirely promiscuous art pours ...
Within this sober Frame expect Work of no Forrain Architect; That unto Caves the Quarries drew, And Forrests did to ...
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