The Blue Scarf (Amy Lowell Poem)
Pale, with the blue of high zeniths, shimmered over with silver, brocaded In smooth, running patterns, a soft stuff, with ...
Pale, with the blue of high zeniths, shimmered over with silver, brocaded In smooth, running patterns, a soft stuff, with ...
Between the dark and the daylight, When the night is beginning to lower, Comes a pause in the day's occupation, ...
Yes, the Year is growing old, And his eye is pale and bleared! Death, with frosty hand and cold, Plucks ...
Where the string At some point, Was umbilical jazz, Or perhaps, In memory, A long lost bloody cross, Buried in ...
I know the rules and hear myself agree Not to invest beyond this one night stand. I know your patter: ...
Miranda purred a greeting, "Good morning sexy lady" to my beautiful Ruth that morning after sunrise Forward in her youth, ...
It's when the birds go piping and the daylight slowly breaks, That, clamoring for his dinner, our precious baby wakes; ...
There's a dear little home in Good-Children street - My heart turneth fondly to-day Where tinkle of tongues and patter ...
Break off! Dance no more! Danger is at the door. Music is in arms. To signal war's alarms. Hark, a ...
Away, sad thoughts, and teasing Perplexities, away! Let other blood go freezing, We will be wise and gay. For here ...
Now, when the moon slid under the cloud And the cold clear dark of starlight fell, He heard in his ...
I. Moonlight silvers the tops of trees, Moonlight whitens the lilac shadowed wall And through the evening fall, Clearly, as ...
I. And Willy, my eldest-born, is gone, you say, little Anne? Ruddy and white, and strong on his legs, he ...
This is the law of the Yukon, and ever she makes it plain: "Send not your foolish and feeble; send ...
Last, to the chamber where I lie My fearful footsteps patter nigh, And come out from the cold and gloom ...
I LOVE him, I love him, ran the patter of her lips And she formed his name on her tongue ...
A CABIN on the mountain side hid in a grassy nook Where door and windows open wide that friendly stars ...
To Jena Woodhouse This way of minutes miserably mixed With their own blinks misunderstood By birds and trees, this eye-born ...
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle? Only the monstrous anger of the guns. Only the stuttering rifles' rapid ...
After seeing at Boston the statue of Robert Gould Shaw, killed while storming Fort Wagner, July 18, 1863, at the ...
A rose of perfect red, embossed With silver sheens of crystal frost, Yet warm, nor life nor fragrance lost. High ...
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