The House Of Dust: Part 03: 07: (Conrad Potter Aiken Poems)
You see that porcelain ranged there in the window-Platters and soup-plates done with pale pink rosebuds,And tiny violets, and wreaths ...
You see that porcelain ranged there in the window-Platters and soup-plates done with pale pink rosebuds,And tiny violets, and wreaths ...
For A FairPRINTEMPS.SWEET SPRING stands blushing 'mid the flowers, Heralded by benignant showers,And soft airs through the young leaves sighing ...
I geet up a-milkin' this mornin',- I geet up afore it wur leet;I ne'er slept a minute for ...
Just when the gentle hand of spring Came fringing the trees with bud and leaf,And when the blades the warm ...
SHE lived beside the Anner, At the foot of Slievna-man, A gentle peasant girl, With mild eyes like the dawn; ...
I.A Baby's feet, like sea-shells pink, Might tempt, should heaven see meet,An angel's lips to kiss, we think, ...
IWhere love is lifeThe roses blow,Though winds be rudeAnd cold the snow,The roses climbSerenely slow,They nod in rhymeWe know--we knowWhere ...
The melody of birds is in her voice. The lake is not more crystal than her eyes, In whose brown ...
You don't begrudge the labor when the roses start to bloom; You don't recall the dreary days that won you ...
Tell me, Was Venus more beautiful Than you are, When she topped The crinkled waves, Drifting shoreward On her plaited ...
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, Old time is still a-flying And this same flower that smiles today Tomorrow will ...
The Oriole sings in the greening grove As if he were half-way waiting, The rosebuds peep from their hoods of ...
O BONIE was yon rosy brier, That blooms sae far frae haunt o' man; And bonie she, and ah, how ...
O WAT ye wha that lo'es me And has my heart a-keeping? O sweet is she that lo'es me, As ...
WHILE larks, with little wing, Fann'd the pure air, Tasting the breathing Spring, Forth I did fare: Gay the sun's ...
You see that porcelain ranged there in the window- Platters and soup-plates done with pale pink rosebuds, And tiny violets, ...
Lest he miss other children, lo! His angel is his playfellow. A riotous angel two years old, With wings of ...
A Baby's feet, like sea-shells pink, Might tempt, should heaven see meet, An angel's lips to kiss, we think, A ...
At Quattro Gatti, she is the poet-in-residence: In Barcelona, Piccasso started here, painting A humble sketch of a picket-white fence. ...
He's fast asleep. See how, O Wife, Night's finger on the lip of life Bids whist the tongue, so prattle-rife, ...
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