by John Keats Ah， what can ail thee， wretched wight， Alone and palely loitering； The sedge is withered from the lake， And no birds sing. Ah， what can ...
by William Shakespeare My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun； Coral is far more red than her lips' red； If snow be white， why then her br...
by Deborah Digges My life's calling， setting fires. Here in a hearth so huge I can stand inside and shove the wood around with my bare hands while...
by Linda Gregg Something was pouring out. Filling the field and making it vacant. A wind blowing them sideways as they moved forward. The crying as be...
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning My letters！ all dead paper， mute and white！ And yet they seem alive and quivering Against my tremulous hands which loose...
by Kay Ryan Nothing exists as a block and cannot be parceled up. So if nothing's ventured it's not just talk； it's the big wager. Don'...
by Robert Browning That's my last Duchess painted on the wall， Looking as if she were alive. I call That piece a wonder， now： Frà Pandolf&#...
by William Wordsworth My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky： So was it when my life began； So is it now I am a man； So be it when I sha...
by W. S. Merwin My friends without shields walk on the target It is late the windows are breaking My friends without shoes leave What they love Grief ...
by Mark Irwin Sunday mornings I would reach high into his dark closet while standing on a chair and tiptoeing reach higher， touching， sometimes fumbli...