The Fruit Shop (Amy Lowell Poem)
Cross-ribboned shoes; a muslin gown, High-waisted, girdled with bright blue; A straw poke bonnet which hid the frown She pluckered ...
Cross-ribboned shoes; a muslin gown, High-waisted, girdled with bright blue; A straw poke bonnet which hid the frown She pluckered ...
A face smiled at me from across the room caught in the shadows and folds of the floral patterned valance ...
I've tried the new moon tilted in the air Above a hazy tree-and-farmhouse cluster As you might try a jewel ...
All out of doors looked darkly in at him Through the thin frost, almost in separate stars, That gathers on ...
Here on the slopes of hills, facing the dusk and the cannon of time Close to the gardens of broken ...
Mine -- by the Right of the White Election! Mine -- by the Royal Seal! Mine -- by the Sign ...
We took turns Watching seagulls there Walking on A tilted shore Of ancient waves And modern ships Sparkling in a ...
In most self-portraits it is the face that dominates: Cezanne is a pair of eyes swimming in brushstrokes, Van Gogh ...
What scene would I want to be enveloped in more than this one, an ordinary night at the kitchen table, ...
The restaurants on hot spring evenings Lie under a dense and savage air. Foul drafts and hoots from dunken revelers ...
An angel was tired of heaven, as he lounged in the golden street; His halo was tilted sideways, and his ...
Up in my garret bleak and bare I tilted back on my broken chair, And my three old pals were ...
A bunch of the boys were whooping it up in the Malamute saloon; The kid that handles the music-box was ...
I Once, when a boy, I killed a cat. I guess it's just because of that A cat evokes my ...
We're talking different kinds of vulnerability here. These icicles aren't going to last for ever Suspended in the ultra violet ...
The horizons ring me like faggots, Tilted and disparate, and always unstable. Touched by a match, they might warm me, ...
On the long shore, lit by the moon To show them properly alone, Two lovers suddenly embraced So that their ...
A week later, I said to a friend: I don't think I could ever write about it. Maybe in a ...
Under yonder beech-tree single on the green-sward, Couched with her arms behind her golden head, Knees and tresses folded to ...
[The late Mr. Jonathan Swift Somers, laureate of Spoon River, planned The Spooniad as an epic in twenty-four books, but ...
Since I don't know who will be reading this or even if it will be read, I must invent someone ...
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