Add to ORKGIn the first year of peace, the springtime sun Shone long on a wintry scene, but naturally No one complained, and the winter\u27s heavy quiet Was wholly undisturbed..
Sad, still Spetember\u27s sheaf Of scarlet sumac, now, Coldly sheared by snow\u27s silver sword Is s...
Long furlongs flew I, alone afoot, From larks and trees and precious things Toward bleak despair or ...
The warm, dry air pushed itself up through the metal curlicues of the register..
Last period in Mrs. Lubell\u27s sixth-grade social studies class was always hard to sit through, esp...
I SHIVERED underneath by heavy coat and forced my mittened hands more firmly into my pockets. The wi...
FEBRUARY had been a damp, chill month with none of the violence of winter. Snow, which seemed to mel...
not even eternities are made to last when you\u27re nineteen and the first moist-grass day of spring...
When the last of the wood has been gathered in, And the stove shows rust where polish has been, The ...
The winter night comes; a cold, wet, towel across our eyes. T h e edges will be lifted in the mornin...
when dawn came do you remember how happy rainfall seemed days have gone by since our meeting when to...
sometimes in the morning when it\u27s still and silence is the only noise before the town turns on a...
Unclad, the bony fingers on the lawn Reach skyward, clutching at the cold gray blast That stripes th...
The dry day dies as many have before, In the steel-gray death of a bloodless sun; Mortician night sh...
A spring afternoon . . . . Deep tones drifting through fingers curved over the keyboard,.
. . . of fall quarter, 1947. Beautiful Indian summer until cold snow in November. Several rainy week...
Sad, still Spetember\u27s sheaf Of scarlet sumac, now, Coldly sheared by snow\u27s silver sword Is s...
Long furlongs flew I, alone afoot, From larks and trees and precious things Toward bleak despair or ...
The warm, dry air pushed itself up through the metal curlicues of the register..
Last period in Mrs. Lubell\u27s sixth-grade social studies class was always hard to sit through, esp...
I SHIVERED underneath by heavy coat and forced my mittened hands more firmly into my pockets. The wi...
FEBRUARY had been a damp, chill month with none of the violence of winter. Snow, which seemed to mel...
not even eternities are made to last when you\u27re nineteen and the first moist-grass day of spring...
When the last of the wood has been gathered in, And the stove shows rust where polish has been, The ...
The winter night comes; a cold, wet, towel across our eyes. T h e edges will be lifted in the mornin...
when dawn came do you remember how happy rainfall seemed days have gone by since our meeting when to...
sometimes in the morning when it\u27s still and silence is the only noise before the town turns on a...
Unclad, the bony fingers on the lawn Reach skyward, clutching at the cold gray blast That stripes th...
The dry day dies as many have before, In the steel-gray death of a bloodless sun; Mortician night sh...
A spring afternoon . . . . Deep tones drifting through fingers curved over the keyboard,.
. . . of fall quarter, 1947. Beautiful Indian summer until cold snow in November. Several rainy week...
Sad, still Spetember\u27s sheaf Of scarlet sumac, now, Coldly sheared by snow\u27s silver sword Is s...
Long furlongs flew I, alone afoot, From larks and trees and precious things Toward bleak despair or ...
The warm, dry air pushed itself up through the metal curlicues of the register..