By: Robert Frost I have been one acquainted with the night. I have walked out in rain — and back in rain. I have outwalked…
By: Wilfred Owen I Happy are men who yet before they are killed Can let their veins run cold. Whom no compassion fleers Or makes their…
My bones feel soft in the morning, pale under the light and the soft glow of the streetlights as they flicker out. Through the sun…
By: Lawrence Raab Making something the way it was— what could I have been thinking months ago when I wrote that line in my notebook?…
By: Timothy Murphy The night you died, I dreamed you came to camp to hear confession from an Eagle Scout tortured by forty years of…
By: Allen Ginsberg Strange now to think of you, gone without corsets & eyes, while I walk on the sunny pavement of Greenwich Village….
Poet and essayist Adrienne Rich was one of America’s foremost public intellectuals. Widely read and hugely influential, Rich’s career spanned seven decades and has hewed…
By: Sylvia Plath On this bald hill the new year hones its edge. Faceless and pale as china The round sky goes on minding its…
By: Slyvia Plath All right, let’s say you could take a skull and break it The way you’d crack a clock; you’d crush the bone…
By: Franz Kafka Often when I see dresses with many pleats and frills and flounces, draped beautifully over beautiful bodies, then I think to myself…
