by Edwin Arlington Robinson They are all gone away， The House is shut and still， There is nothing more to say. Through broken walls and gray The winds...
by Marilyn Nelson It's the ragged source of memory， a tarpaper-shingled bungalow whose floors tilt toward the porch， whose back yard ends abruptly...
by Robert Frost When I see birches bend to left and right Across the lines of straighter darker trees， I like to think some boy's been swinging th...
by Li-Young Lee Tonight my brother， in heavy boots， is walking through bare rooms over my head， opening and closing doors. What could he be looking fo...
by Gary Fincke In seventh grade， when we were alone for An afternoon， no chance of being caught， Silk was what we sought in our sisters' rooms. It...
by Maggie Anderson Who would have thought the afterlife would look so much like Ohio？ A small town place， thickly settled among deciduous trees. I liv...
by Mark Van Doren The hills of little Cornwall Themselves are dreams. The mind lies down among them， Even by day， and snores， Snug in the perilous kno...
by Crystal Bacon Cheap， made to travel they throw their tiny drumbeats out in stereo from the bed table to the work station. They fill the room with a...
by Alfred Noyes The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees， The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas， The road was a ribbo...
by Mary Ann Samyn -She lay very still， looking up at the undersides of words. Pink was pink all the way through， like any organ might be， plucked from...