The Weed (Elizabeth Bishop Poem)
I dreamed that dead, and meditating, I lay upon a grave, or bed, (at least, some cold and close-built bower). ...
I dreamed that dead, and meditating, I lay upon a grave, or bed, (at least, some cold and close-built bower). ...
I caught a tremendous fish and held him beside the boat half out of water, with my hook fast in ...
September rain falls on the house. In the failing light, the old grandmother sits in the kitchen with the child ...
Minnow, go to sleep and dream, Close your great big eyes; Round your bed Events prepare The pleasantest surprise. Darling ...
Earliest morning, switching all the tracks that cross the sky from cinder star to star, coupling the ends of streets ...
Oh, but it is dirty! --this little filling station, oil-soaked, oil-permeated to a disturbing, over-all black translucency. Be careful with ...
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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