The Hammers (Amy Lowell Poem)
I Frindsbury, Kent, 1786 Bang! Bang! Tap! Tap-a-tap! Rap! All through the lead and silver Winter days, All through the ...
I Frindsbury, Kent, 1786 Bang! Bang! Tap! Tap-a-tap! Rap! All through the lead and silver Winter days, All through the ...
Part First Frau Concert-Meister Altgelt shut the door. A storm was rising, heavy gusts of wind Swirled through the trees, ...
A drifting, April, twilight sky, A wind which blew the puddles dry, And slapped the river into waves That ran ...
Bath The day is fresh-washed and fair, and there is a smell of tulips and narcissus in the air. The ...
Once I am sure there's nothing going on I step inside, letting the door thud shut. Another church: matting, seats, ...
It was the schooner Hesperus, That sailed the wintry sea; And the skipper had taken his little daughter, To bear ...
There's a brook on the side of Greylock that used to be full of trout, But there's nothing there now ...
the great thing about the tall white daisy is that it knows how to laugh at itself some flowers for ...
Crossing the bridge, walking with the girls hot summer morning a whiff of memory the smell of the river far ...
A whiff of the termites the shavings, the moisture the smell of sawdust thick on the wood pile. Out in ...
random connection to long forgotten facts scraps of thoughts deep within my consciousness triggered by a word, a conversation, music, ...
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem- save that it's green and wooden- I come, ...
So closed our tale, of which I give you all The random scheme as wildly as it rose: The words ...
There where the mighty mountains bare their fangs unto the moon, There where the sullen sun-dogs glare in the snow-bright, ...
I look at no one, me; I pass them on the stair; Shadows! I don't see; Shadows! everywhere. Haunting, taunting, ...
IN the loam we sleep, In the cool moist loam, To the lull of years that pass And the break ...
The hands of the clock were reaching high In an old midtown hotel; I name no name, but its sordid ...
At first you will know not what they mean, And you may never know, And we may never tell you: ...
At Quattro Gatti, she is the poet-in-residence: In Barcelona, Piccasso started here, painting A humble sketch of a picket-white fence. ...
I wish it were spring in the world. Let it be spring! Come, bubbling, surging tide of sap! Come, rush ...
The Youth speaks: -: "Why do you seek the sun In your bubble-crown ascending? Your chariot ...
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