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

Christopher Howell

We were pieces of a blackboardupon which last rites were written and did not carewho could or could not seethat we were gods and you were notever coming home, in spite of the mourners’ deeply foolish lovewe could imagine only by flyinginto the sun, where every grief is charredand finally burned away. — Christopher Howell,… Continue reading Christopher Howell


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Classic · Collection · Contemporary · Elegy · Excerpt · Fragment · Passage · Poetry · Russian Culture · Russian Literature

Anna Akhmatova

I myself, from the very beginning,Seemed to myself like someone’s dream or deliriumOr a reflection in someone else’s mirror,Without flesh, without meaning, without a name.Already I knew the list of crimesThat I was destined to commit. — Anna Akhmatova, Northern Elegies (Firefly Press 1985)

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Austrian Culture · Austrian Literature · Bohemian-Austrian Poet · Classic · Collection · Elegy · Excerpt · Fragment · Inspirational · Modernism · Motivational · Passage · Poetry · Spiritual

Rainer Maria Rilke

Oh trees of life, when will your winter come?We’re not in tune. Not like migratory birds.Outmoded, late, in haste, we force ourselves on windswhich let us down upon indifferent ponds.Though we’ve had to learn how flowering is fading,somewhere lions still roam,unaware, in their majesty, of any weakness. — Rainer Maria Rilke, from the “Fourth Elegy,”… Continue reading Rainer Maria Rilke

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American Culture · American Literature · Classic · Collection · Elegy · Excerpt · Poetry

Robert Frost

My Butterfly. An Elegy THINE emulous fond flowers are dead, too,    And the daft sun-assaulter, he    That frighted thee so oft, is fled or dead:    Save only me    (Nor is it sad to thee!)            Save only me    There is none left to mourn thee in the fields.     The gray grass is not dappled with… Continue reading Robert Frost

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American Culture · American Literature · Contemporary · Elegy · Excerpt · Fragment · Online Magazine · Online Review · Passage · Periodical · Poetry

Beth Bachmann

No shepherds. No nymphs. Maybe just one:the girl the fawn strips like a fisherman’s rose.Death turns its mouth red. It can no longer liein the lilies. Not on my watch. The lake is filthywith silver fish sticky with leeches. Lovesick,I flick a feather into the water. No stones.Only the one in my pocket, heavy as… Continue reading Beth Bachmann

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