Songs For A Colored Singer (Elizabeth Bishop Poem)
I A washing hangs upon the line, but it's not mine. None of the things that I can see belong ...
I A washing hangs upon the line, but it's not mine. None of the things that I can see belong ...
On the fair green hills of Rio There grows a fearful stain: The poor who come to Rio And can't ...
Think of the storm roaming the sky uneasily like a dog looking for a place to sleep in, listen to ...
This is not my home. How did I get so far from water? It must be over that way somewhere. ...
It is so peaceful on the ceiling! It is the Place de la Concorde. The little crystal chandelier is off, ...
For John Malcolm Brinnin and Bill Read: Duxbury It was cold and windy, scarcely the day to take a walk ...
About the size of an old-style dollar bill, American or Canadian, mostly the same whites, gray greens, and steel grays ...
Although it is a cold evening, down by one of the fishhouses an old man sits netting, his net, in ...
There are too many waterfalls here; the crowded streams hurry too rapidly down to the sea, and the pressure of ...
I dreamed that dead, and meditating, I lay upon a grave, or bed, (at least, some cold and close-built bower). ...
The art of losing isn't hard to master; so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that ...
The art of losing isn't hard to master; so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that ...
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