by John Greenleaf Whittier The sun that brief December day Rose cheerless over hills of gray， And， darkly circled， gave at noon A sadder light than wa...
by Deborah Digges It fell to me to tell the bees， though I had wanted another duty— to be the scribbler at his death， there chart the third day&...
by George Scarbrough Always in transit we were always temporarily in exile， each new place seeming after a while and for a while our home. Because no ...
by Erica Funkhouser Last night the animals beneath her window crept out of hiding to comb the dirt from each other's fur. Rising to watch， she dis...
by Alberto Ríos Mr. Teodoro Luna in his later years had taken to kissing His wife Not so much with his lips as with his brows. This is not to s...
by Conrad Aiken I How shall we praise the magnificence of the dead， The great man humbled， the haughty brought to dust？ Is there a horn we should not ...
by Chiao Meng Translated by David Hinton Apricots died young in blossoms still nipples. Frost cut them free， and their scattering made me mourn the ch...
by Susan Wheeler Purse be full again， or else must I die. This is the wish the trees in hell's seventh circle lacked， bark ripped by monstrous dog...
by George Keithley Behind bejeweled fingers they grinned， they tittered， to hear their friend——his cup filled to spilling——pro...
by David Ferry By the last few times we saw her it was clear That things were different. When you tried to help her Get out of the car or get from the...