Should Auld Acquaintance . . .? (Cicely Fox Smith Poems)
Fancy you knowin' old Bill Barley — I haven't seen 'im since I don't know when;Him an' me made a ...
Fancy you knowin' old Bill Barley — I haven't seen 'im since I don't know when;Him an' me made a ...
Panels of claret and blue which shine Under the moon like lees of wine. A coronet done in a golden ...
I How fresh the Dartle's little waves that day! A steely silver, underlined with blue, And flashing where the round ...
A drifting, April, twilight sky, A wind which blew the puddles dry, And slapped the river into waves That ran ...
By the shore of Gitche Gumee, By the shining Big-Sea-Water, At the doorway of his wigwam, In the pleasant Summer ...
You see this grntle stream that glides, Shoved on, by quick-succeeding tides: Try if this sober stream you can Follow ...
(1) the ordinary you are not interested in me a receiver of food and a giver of shit my brain ...
(a) they seek to celebrate the word not to bring their knives out on a poem dissecting it to find ...
One evening at dusk as Noah stood on his Ark, Putting green oil in starboard side lamp, His wife came ...
1/ Genius is not a generous thing In return it charges more interest than any amount of royalties can cover ...
The Devil is a gentleman and askes you down to stay At his little place at What'sitsname (it isn't far ...
( A Poem in Remembrance) Bhaskar Roy Barman Jimmy, a black, snub-nosed bitch, a jaw shoved out, your eyes throwing ...
Who was too Freely Moved to Tears, and thereby ruined his Political Career Lord Lundy from his earliest years Was ...
Rabbi, we Gadarenes Are not ascetics; we are fond of wealth and possessions. Love, as You call it, we obviate ...
When I was a windy boy and a bit And the black spit of the chapel fold, (Sighed the old ...
Time that is moved by little fidget wheels Is not my time, the flood that does not flow. Between the ...
I HAVE been watching the war map slammed up for advertising in front of the newspaper office. Buttons--red and yellow ...
The summer hums. The afternoon fatigues; she breathed her crisp white dress distractedly and put into it that sharply etched ...
Mondays, way before dawn, before even the first hint of blue in the windows, we'd hear it start, off the ...
Us all on sore cement was we. Not warmed then with glares. Not glutting mush under that pole the lightning's ...
This harpie with dry red curls talked openly of her husband, his impotence, his death, the death of her lover, ...
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