The Book of Hours of Sister Clotilde (Amy Lowell Poem)
The Bell in the convent tower swung. High overhead the great sun hung, A navel for the curving sky. The ...
The Bell in the convent tower swung. High overhead the great sun hung, A navel for the curving sky. The ...
Love built a stately house, where Fortune came, And spinning fancies, she was heard to say That her fine cobwebs ...
Hark, hearer, hear what I do; lend a thought now, make believe We are leafwhelmed somewhere with the hood Of ...
Pale beech and pine-tree blue, Set in one clay, Bough to bough cannot you Bide out your day? When the ...
What care the Dead, for Chanticleer -- What care the Dead for Day? 'Tis late your Sunrise vex their face ...
I know some lonely Houses off the Road A Robber'd like the look of -- Wooden barred, And Windows hanging ...
WOE is me to tell it thee, Winter winds in Arcady! Scattered is thy flock and fled From the glades ...
Now that the winter's gone, the earth hath lost Her snow-white robes, and now no more the frost Candies the ...
The turquoise pool rose up to meet us, its slide a silver afterthought down which we plunged, screaming, into a ...
This Sycamore, oft musical with bees,-- Such tents the Patriarchs loved ! O long unharmed May all its ag?d boughs ...
Bells are booming down the bohreens, White the mist along the grass, Now the Julias, Maeves and Maureens Move between ...
Those moments, tasted once and never done, Of long surf breaking in the mid-day sun. A far-off blow-hole booming like ...
When sycamore leaves wer a-spreaden Green-ruddy in hedges, Bezide the red doust o' the ridges, A-dried at Woak Hill; I ...
When sycamore leaves wer a-spreaden Green-ruddy in hedges, Bezide the red doust o' the ridges, A-dried at Woak Hill; I ...
Huffy Henry hid the day, unappeasable Henry sulked. I see his point,â?"a trying to put things over. It was the ...
I. He was a Grecian lad, who coming home With pulpy figs and wine from Sicily Stood at his galley's ...
By night we linger'd on the lawn, For underfoot the herb was dry; And genial warmth; and o'er the sky ...
Among orange-tile rooftops and chimney pots the fen fog slips, gray as rats, while on spotted branch of the sycamore ...
I never may turn the loop of a road Where sudden, ahead, the sea is Iying, But my heart drags ...
Ye lovers of the picturesque, if ye wish to drown your grief, Take my advice, and visit the ancient town ...
April, and the last of the plum blossoms scatters on the black grass before dawn. The sycamore, the lime, the ...
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