Booth’s Drum [1] (Henry Lawson Poems)
They were "ratty" they were hooted by the meanest and the least,When they woke the Drum of Glory long ago ...
They were "ratty" they were hooted by the meanest and the least,When they woke the Drum of Glory long ago ...
[Aunt Susan sends Uncle Eph to town to sell the cow. Meeting Farmer Johnson with a dun mule, he makes ...
Farmhouses curl like horns of plenty, hidescrawny bare shanks against a barn, or crouchempty in the shadow of a mountain. ...
just flew inside my chest. Somedays it lights inside my brain,but today it's in my bonehouse,rattling ribs like a birdcage.If ...
The bleak faced Winter, with his braggart winds(Coiled to his scrawny throat in tattered black),Posts down the highway of his ...
What has bent you,Warped and twisted you,Torn and crippled you?What has embittered you,O lonely tree?You search the rocks for a ...
She gropes and hobbies, where the dropsied rocks Are hairy with the lichens and the twist Of knotted wolf's-bane, mumbling in the ...
"The brimming bucket at my mouth -Coolness of water! In all my veins the heat, the drouth, - O, the ...
A parody of Edgar Lee Masters' "Spoon River Anthology," wherein characters from famous poems and novels recite their own epithets.ANNABEL ...
Someone has written a song about "Tray,"But no one has courage to write about Skye;So methinks I will rhyme, in ...
"In Westertown a statue rules the square,The settler as the sculptor visioned him.Nor slender, nor yet massive; sinewy,Bearded, erect, broad ...
Who owns those scrawny little feet? Death. Who owns this bristly scorched-looking face? Death. Who owns these still-working lungs? Death. ...
I Alphonso live and learn, Seeing nature go astern. Things deteriorate in kind, Lemons run to leaves and rind, Meagre ...
Poetry, I found you where at last they chained and bound you; with devices all around you to torture and ...
Tracks of rain and light linger in the spongy greens of a nature whose flickering mountain-bulging nearer, ebbing back into ...
To Certain Poets About to Die TAKE your fill of intimate remorse, perfumed sorrow, Over the dead child of a ...
At the earliest ending of winter, In March, a scrawny cry from outside Seemed like a sound in his mind. ...
by Sharmagne Leland-St.John There were dry red days Devoid of clouds Devoid of breeze Sound bruised My burning bones Dirt ...
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