literature

My love reveals objects silken butterflies concealed in his fingers his words splash me with stars night shines like lightning under th...

Contemptuous of his home beyond The village and the village pond, A large-souled Frog who spurned each byeway, Hopped along the impe...

An envelope arrives unannounced from overseas containing stark white sheets,

Much as he left it when he went from us Here was the room again where he had been So long that something oh him should be seen, Or felt-and...

So, we’ll go no more a-roving So late into the night, Though the heart be still as loving, And the moon be still as bright.

When April bends above me And finds me fast asleep, Dust need not keep the secret A live heart died to keep.

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;  Coral is far more red than her lips' red;  If snow be white, why then her breasts...

So, we’ll go no more a-roving So late into the night, Though the heart be still as loving, And the moon be still as bright.

“I had never thought of myself as an essayist,” wrote James Baldwin, who was finishing his novel  Giovanni’s Room  while he worked on what w...

I cannot live with you, It would be life, And life is over there Behind the shelf