Blood Soup, by Phil Boiarski
She called the white ducks with a soft
Cluckin...
Animal Poems
Waking the Child, by Phil Boiarski
In the dream, walking August pasture:
Gold b...
The Swallows, by Pierre-Jean de Béranger
On the Moorish coast, chain-tethered,
Thus a...
The Dead God, by Pierre Quillard
ONE star alone on the bier, one only star.
O ...
Oh What a Wonder the Palaced Path of Lazy Thought, by Prabhath Avadhanula
Oh what a wonder the palaced path of lazy thoug...
Love in the Midwest, by R. M. Engelhardt
In this dream. You are a painting by T...
The Lemming Wheel, by Raina Morreau
Someone passed at work today
in passing
I mea...
Sunday Best, by Raina Morreau
I found my shade of lipstick
and it was
Brig...
A Taste for Innocence, by Raina Morreau
I remember static in the air
the sound of my u...
Hair, by Remy de Gourmont
THERE is great mystery, Simone,
In the fores...
The Growth of the God, by René Arcos
BURNING gold, and light;
by the same token: ...
Yesterday's Footprints, by Ric Masten
last summer whenever possible
my visiting gran...
Atlantis, by Richard Chenevix Trench
I could loose my boat
And could bid it float
...
Evening Hymn, by Richard Chenevix Trench
To the sound of evening bells
All that lives t...
On an Early Death, by Richard Chenevix Trench
Ah me! Of them from whom the good have hope,
...
On Leaving Rome, by Richard Chenevix Trench
ADDRESSED TO A FRIEND RESIDING IN THAT CITY O ...
On Perseus and Medusa, by Richard Chenevix Trench
On Benvenuto Cellini's sculpture of Perseus and...
Sais, by Richard Chenevix Trench
An awful statue, by a veil half-hid,
At Sais...
The Spirit of Beauty, by Richard Chenevix Trench
Spirit of Beauty, that was sought of old,
An...
To a Robin Redbreast, by Richard Chenevix Trench
SINGING IN WINTER Oh light of heart and wing, ...
A Visit to Tusculum, by Richard Chenevix Trench
A solemn thing it is, and full of awe,
Wande...
The Aurora Borealis, by Richard Francis Towndrow
The nights of October 24th and 25th, 1870, we...
Autumn, by Richard Francis Towndrow
I. THE YEAR'S WEALTH The elms are clad in triu...
Sleep, by Richard Francis Towndrow
Man to his labour, till the shadows come
And ...
Spring, by Richard Francis Towndrow
I. THE PROMISE Still lingers in the furrow, r...