A London Thoroughfare. 2 A.M (Amy Lowell Poem)
They have watered the street, It shines in the glare of lamps, Cold, white lamps, And lies Like a slow-moving ...
They have watered the street, It shines in the glare of lamps, Cold, white lamps, And lies Like a slow-moving ...
Bath The day is fresh-washed and fair, and there is a smell of tulips and narcissus in the air. The ...
Under silver wing San Francisco's towers sprouting thru thin gas clouds, Tamalpais black-breasted above Pacific azure Berkeley hills pine-covered below-- ...
A tiny bride, with a veil that was her mother's when we wed White dress, white tights, black school shoes, ...
In memory of Father Flye, 1884-1985 The strange and wonderful are too much with us. The protea of the antipodes-a ...
The whole idea of it makes me feel like I'm coming down with something, something worse than any stomach ache ...
This year, I'm raising the emotional ante, putting my face in the leaves to be stepped on, seeing myself among ...
The country ever has a lagging Spring, Waiting for May to call its violets forth, And June its roses--showers and ...
The last pose flickered, failed. The screen's dead white Glared in a sudden flooding of harsh light Stabbing the eyes; ...
Think of the storm roaming the sky uneasily like a dog looking for a place to sleep in, listen to ...
Man-Moth: Newspaper misprint for "mammoth." Here, above, cracks in the buldings are filled with battered moonlight. The whole shadow of ...
At least I've learned this much: Life doesn't have to be all poetry and roses. Life can be bus rides, ...
The yard half a yard, half a lake blue as a corpse. The lake will tell things you long to ...
As Parmigianino did it, the right hand Bigger than the head, thrust at the viewer And swerving easily away, as ...
you haven't lived until you've been in a flophouse with nothing but one light bulb and 56 men squeezed together ...
in the hospitals and jails it's the worst in madhouses it's the worst in penthouses it's the worst in skid ...
WHO knows what I know when I have asked the night questions and the night has answered nothing only the ...
A heap of wheat, says the Song of Songs but I've never seen wheat in a pile. Apples, potatoes, cabbages, ...
[The late Mr. Jonathan Swift Somers, laureate of Spoon River, planned The Spooniad as an epic in twenty-four books, but ...
All the way on the road to Gary he could see where the sky shone just out of reach and ...
O you who lose the art of hope, Whose temples seem to shrine a lie, Whose sidewalks are but stones ...
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