by Paul Verlaine （Translated by Louis Simpson） High-heels were struggling with a full-length dress So that， between the wind and the terrain， At times...
by Richard Wilbur In her room at the prow of the house Where light breaks， and the windows are tossed with linden， My daughter is writing a story. I p...
by Sir Walter Scott He is gone on the mountain， He is lost to the forest， Like a summer-dried fountain， When our need was the sorest. The font reappea...
by William Wordsworth...
by George Herbert Love built a stately house， where Fortune came， And spinning fancies， she was heard to say That her fine cobwebs did support the fra...
by Dante Gabriel Rossetti The wind flapped loose， the wind was still， Shaken out dead from tree and hill： I had walked on at the wind's will， I sa...
by Kevin Cantwell The held cry of a hawk makes Thomas Hardy think to make her believe it's a newborn's cry she hears. Milk wets through her bl...
by Erica Funkhouser The women who clean fish are all named Rose or Grace. They wake up close to the water， damp and dreamy beneath white sheets， think...
by Lise Goett All day， we loitered at the throat of the penny arcade to hear how the fisherman's cast had taken the eye of Vilas Puchomsky， a pain...
by Randall Jarrell The saris go by me from the embassies. Cloth from the moon. Cloth from another planet. They look back at the leopard like the leopa...