American Culture · American Literature · Anthology · Classic · Collection · Compilation · Contemporary · Excerpt · Fellowship of Southern Writers · Fragment · New Criticism · Passage · Poetry · Southern Literature

Robert Penn Warren

Accept these images for what they are— Out of the past a fragile element Of substance into accident. I would speak honestly and of a full heart; I would speak surely for the tale is short, And the soul’s remorseless catalogue Assumes its quick and piteous sum. — Robert Penn Warren, from “San Francisco Night… Continue reading Robert Penn Warren

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American Culture · American Literature · Anthology · Classic · Collection · Compilation · Contemporary · Excerpt · Fellowship of Southern Writers · New Criticism · Passage · Poetry · Southern Literature

Robert Penn Warren

Waters, hypnotic, long after moonset, murmur Under your window, and Time Is only a shade on the underside of the beech-leaf Which, upward, reflects a tiny refulgence of stars. What can you dream to make Time real again? I have read in a book that dream is the mother of memory, And if there’s no… Continue reading Robert Penn Warren

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American Culture · American Literature · Anthology · Classic · Collection · Compilation · Contemporary · Excerpt · Fragment · Passage · Poetry · Postmodernism · The New York School

John Ashbery

                                           Singing accurately So that the notes mount straight up out of the well of Dim noon and rival the tiny, sparkling yellow flowers Growing around the bring of the quarry, encapsulates The different weights of things.                                                  But it isn’t enough To just go on singing. — John Ashbery, from ‘Syringa” The Vintage Book… Continue reading John Ashbery

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Anthology · Classic · Collection · Compilation · Decadent Movement · Excerpt · French Culture · French Literature · Passage · Poetry

Paul Verlaine

You, memory; absence, me, that tide And time record. Ah, by your side To live again, undying! Aye, To live again! But ma petite, Now nothingness, cold, owns my flesh… Will your love keep my memory fresh? — Paul Verlaine, from “Last Hope,” One Hundred and One Poems by Paul Verlaine: A Bilingual Edition trans.… Continue reading Paul Verlaine

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