The Precinct. Rochester (Amy Lowell Poem)
The tall yellow hollyhocks stand, Still and straight, With their round blossoms spread open, In the quiet sunshine. And still ...
The tall yellow hollyhocks stand, Still and straight, With their round blossoms spread open, In the quiet sunshine. And still ...
I How the slates of the roof sparkle in the sun, over there, over there, beyond the high wall! How ...
Roll up, Eureka's heroes, on that grand Old Rush afar, For Lalor's gone to join you in the big camp ...
A great and glorious thing it is To learn, for seven years or so, The Lord knows what of that ...
There is a hawk that is picking the birds out of our sky, She killed the pigeons of peace and ...
It is a more ephemeral, a more undefined quixotic thought not the chronological age, of so many days, of years ...
Memories fade, distances grow, dust builds on the pictures, the moment of our lives accumulate, separate our pasts from our ...
Prate, ye who will, of so-called charms you find across the sea-- The land of stoves and sunshine is good ...
Sitting alone, Love bids me go and write; Reason plucks back, commanding me to stay, Boasting that she doth still ...
I watch the man bend over his patch, a fat gunny sack at his feet. He combs the earth with ...
I. All I believed is true! I am able yet All I want, to get By a method as strange ...
I am poor brother Lippo, by your leave! You need not clap your torches to my face. Zooks, what's to ...
The days, the nights, flow one by one above us, The hours go silently over our lifted faces, We are ...
This is just a place: we go around, distanced, yearly in a star's atmosphere, turning daily into and out of ...
THOU, Nature, partial Nature, I arraign; Of thy caprice maternal I complain. The peopled fold thy kindly care have found, ...
LATE crippl'd of an arm, and now a leg, About to beg a pass for leave to beg; Dull, listless, ...
Nought loves another as itself Nor venerates another so. Nor is it possible to Thought A greater than itself to ...
ah, christ, what a CREW: more poetry, always more P O E T R Y . if it doesn't come, ...
NOTHING so true as what you once let fall, "Most Women have no Characters at all." Matter too soft a ...
I Our brains ache, in the merciless iced east winds that knife us . . . Wearied we keep awake ...
Oblig'd by frequent visits of this man, Whom as Priest, Poet, and Musician, I for some branch of Melchizedeck took, ...
I wish it were spring in the world. Let it be spring! Come, bubbling, surging tide of sap! Come, rush ...
"Hill of Jews," says one, named for a cemetery long gone."Hill of Jove," says another, and maybe Jove stalked here ...
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