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Mary Oliver

                                                          you can drip with despair all afternoon and still, on a green branch, its wings just lightly touched by the passing foil of the water, the thrush, puffing out its spotted breast, will sing of the perfect, stone-hard beauty of everything. — Mary Oliver, “The Poet With His Face in His Hands,” New and… Continue reading Mary Oliver

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American Culture · American Literature · Classic · Collection · Confessional · Contemporary · Excerpt · Passage · Poetry

Robert Lowell

One dark night, my Tudor Ford climbed the hill’s skull; I watched for love-cars . Lights turned down, they lay together, hull to hull, where the graveyard shelves on the town. . . . My mind’s not right. A car radio bleats, “Love, O careless Love. . . .” I hear my ill-spirit sob in… Continue reading Robert Lowell

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