Poetry

First Rhymes In the meadow by the mill I›d make my ballad, Tunes to that would whistle shrill And beat the blackbird’s ringing bill.— But surely the innocent spring has died, The sultry noon has ...

All in June A week ago I had a fire To warm my feet, my hands and face; Cold winds, that never make a friend, Crept in and out of every place. Today the fields ...

Relinquunt Omnia Servare Rem Publicam. The old South Boston Aquarium stands in a Sahara of snow now. Its broken windows are boarded. The bronze weathervane cod has lost half its scales. The airy tanks are ...

One Art The art of losing isn’t hard to master; so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster, Lose something every day. Accept the fluster of ...

April is the cruellest month, breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing Memory and desire, stirring Dull roots with spring rain. Winter kept us warm, covering Earth in forgetful snow, feeding A little life ...