Poetry must be new as foam, and as old as the rock.
Poetry must be new as foam, and as old as the rock.
A Barred Owl The warping night-air having brought the boom Of an owl's voice into her darkened room, We tell…
The earth is crammed with heaven and every common bush afire with God, but only those with eyes to see…
Music, when Soft Voices die Music, when soft voices die, Vibrates in the memory; Odours, when sweet violets sicken, Live…