By Stephen Ratcliffe
light coming into fog against invisible top of ridge, blue jay on redwood fence in foreground, sound...
Explore Poems: Pastoral
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- By Cole Swensena river slips in shifting leaves sifting. a river sifts and falls to pieces in which not seen (this ...
- By J. V. CunninghamI am no shepherd of a child’s surmises. I have seen fear where the coiled serpent rises, Thirst where...
- By Ted HughesI climbed through woods in the hour-before-dawn dark. Evil air, a frost-making stillness, Not a leaf...
- By Tracy K. Smith200 cows more than 600 hilly acres property would have been even larger had J not sold 66 acres to DuPont...
- By James Longenbach1 Just as there were reeds along the riverbank,Just as there were cloudsAbove my head, my lute was lying...
- By Rita DoveI acknowledge my status as a stranger: Inappropriate clothes, odd habits Out of sync with wasp and wren...
- By Malcolm CowleyFarmhouses curl like horns of plenty, hide scrawny bare shanks against a barn, or crouch empty in the...
- By James TateDo you have adequate oxen for the job? No, my oxen are inadequate. Well, how many oxen would it take...
- By Louise GlückDon’t listen to me; my heart’s been broken. I don’t see anything objectively. I know myself; I’ve learned...
- By Allen GrossmanAt that time the sheep called to him From their wormy bellies, as they Lay bloating in the field. He...
- By Percy Bysshe ShelleyFrom the forests and highlands We come, we come; From the river-girt islands, Where loud waves are dumb...
- By Maureen N. McLaneand sex once a day a week a month a year goes by and one hyacinth only returns, frail blue against the...
- By Elizabeth BishopThink of the storm roaming the sky uneasily like a dog looking for a place to sleep in, listen to it...
- By Alfred, Lord TennysonCome down, O maid, from yonder mountain height:What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang)In ...
- By Alfred, Lord TennysonThere lies a vale in Ida, lovelier Than all the valleys of Ionian hills. The swimming vapour slopes ...
- By Lisa RobertsonWhat is this tint that in the shrill cress Will never cease to trouble us and in the fields Gives prick...
- By Kay RyanEverything contains some silence. Noise gets its zest from the small shark's-tooth shaped fragments ...
- By Louise GlückOnce I believed in you; I planted a fig tree. Here, in Vermont, country of no summer. It was a test:...
- By Czeslaw MiloszI don’t remember exactly when Budberg died, it was either two years ago or three. The same with Chen...