THE SLAVE’S DREAM (Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Poems)
Beside the ungathered rice he lay, His sickle in his hand; His breast was bare, his matted hair Was buried ...
Beside the ungathered rice he lay, His sickle in his hand; His breast was bare, his matted hair Was buried ...
Hard Rock/ was/ "known not to take no shit From nobody," and he had the scars to prove it: Split ...
Where run your colts at pasture? Where hide your mares to breed? 'Mid bergs about the Ice-cap Or wove Sargasso ...
Er-Heb beyond the Hills of Ao-Safai Bears witness to the truth, and Ao-Safai Hath told the men of Gorukh. Thence ...
Help for a patriot distressed, a spotless spirit hurt, Help for an honourable clan sore trampled in the dirt! From ...
Summer ends now; now, barbarous in beauty, the stooks arise Around; up above, what wind-walks! what lovely behaviour Of silk-sack ...
Love mercy, kindness, compassion in the world, in the work of the pilgrims, disciples to the nations, as we must ...
You were never told, Mother, how old Illyawas drunk That last holiday, for five days and nights He stumbled through ...
"Zipless sex" one cynic called this festival of fornication, this celebration of new-found sexual strength and urbane honesty, of sex ...
I The cloud my bed is tinged with blood and foam. The vault yet blazes with the sun Writhing above ...
I The cloud my bed is tinged with blood and foam. The vault yet blazes with the sun Writhing above ...
I say to my woman, "Jeffers was a great poet. think of a title like Be Angry At The Sun. ...
On my desk, a set of labels or a synopsis of leeks, blanched by the sun and trailing their roots ...
The friar had said his paternosters duly And scourged his limbs, and afterwards would have slept; But with much riddling ...
Out in the grey cheerless chill of the morning light, Out on the track where the night shades still lurk, ...
(Parvati at her lattice) O Love! were you a basil-wreath to twine among my tresses, A jewelled clasp of shining ...
After two sittings, now our Lady State To end her picture does the third time wait. But ere thou fall'st ...
Horses and men are just alike. There was my stallion, Billy Lee, Black as a cat and trim as a ...
Behold the apples' rounded worlds: juice-green of July rain, the black polestar of flowers, the rind mapped with its crimson ...
At Quattro Gatti, she is the poet-in-residence: In Barcelona, Piccasso started here, painting A humble sketch of a picket-white fence. ...
Round clouds roll in the arms of the wind, The round earth rolls in a clasp of blue sky, And ...
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