The Writer (Richard Wilbur Poems)
In her room at the prow of the house Where light breaks, and the windows are tossed with linden, My ...
In her room at the prow of the house Where light breaks, and the windows are tossed with linden, My ...
Right down the shocked street with a siren-blast That sends all else skittering to the curb, Redness, brass, ladders and ...
Shall I love God for causing me to be? I was mere utterance; shall these words love me? Yet when ...
That flower unseen, that gem of purest ray, Bright thoughts uncut by men: Strange that you need but speak them, ...
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