By J. V. Cunningham
Plato, despair! We prove by norms How numbers bear Empiric forms, How random wrong Will average right...
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- By J. V. CunninghamThere is no stillness in this wood. The quiet of this clearing Is the denial of my hearing The sounds...
- By J. V. CunninghamYou are the problem I propose, My dear, the text my musings glose: I call you for convenience love. ...
- By Sterling A. BrownI When Ma Rainey Comes to town, Folks from anyplace Miles aroun’, From Cape Girardeau, Poplar Bluff,...
- By Anne BrontëA dreadful darkness closes in On my bewildered mind; O let me suffer and not sin, Be tortured yet resigned...
- By Edmund WallerGo, lovely rose! Tell her that wastes her time and me, That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee...
- By Lydia Maria ChildOver the river and through the wood, To grandfather's house we go; The horse knows the way To carry ...
- By Wendy VidelockDear Writers, I’m compiling the first in what I hope is a series of publications I’m calling artists among artists...
- By Anne SextonThe end of the affair is always death. She’s my workshop. Slippery eye, out of the tribe of myself my...
- By Anne SextonChild, the current of your breath is six days long. You lie, a small knuckle on my white bed; lie, fisted...
- By Anne SextonI have gone out, a possessed witch, haunting the black air, braver at night; dreaming evil, I have done...
- By Anthony HechtThird Avenue in sunlight. Nature’s error. Already the bars are filled and John is there. Beneath a plentiful...
- By Anne SextonGone, I say and walk from church, refusing the stiff procession to the grave, letting the dead ride ...
- By Anne SextonFather, this year’s jinx rides us apart where you followed our mother to her cold slumber; a second ...
- By Robert FrostSpades take up leaves No better than spoons, And bags full of leaves Are light as balloons. I make a...
- By Robert FrostThe living come with grassy tread To read the gravestones on the hill; The graveyard draws the living...
- By John KeatsThou still unravish'd bride of quietness, Thou foster-child of silence and slow time, Sylvan historian...
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- By Hugh MacDiarmidWheesht, wheesht, Joyce, and let me hear Nae Anna Livvy’s lilt, But Wauchope, Esk, and Ewes again, Each wi’ its...
- By Bill ManhireEnd of the day. A bar where you ought to leave a tip. The green bird was saying pretty pretty pretty, loved ones...
- By W. S. GrahamSheila, we speak here on the fly Leaf of a book which was myself A good few graves ago. Now I am maintained...