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BY WALLACE STEVENS One must have a mind of winter  Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;   And have been cold a long time To behold the junipers shagged with ice, The spruces rough in the distant glitter
 * THE SNOW MAN **

Of the January sun; and not to think Of any misery in the sound of the wind, In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land Full of the same wind That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow, And, nothing himself, beholds Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is. in the content of your page here.


 * My Papa’s Waltz**

The whiskey on your breath Could make a small boy dizzy. But I hung on like death: Such waltzing was not easy.

We romped until the pans Slid from the kitchen shelf. My mother’s countenance Could not unfrown itself.

The hand that held my wrist Was battered on one knuckle. At every step you missed, My right ear scraped a buckle.

You beat time on my head With a palm caked hard by dirt, Then waltzed me off to bed. Still clinging to your shirt.

by Theodore Roethke



**THE DONKEY**
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Poet, fiction writer, social philosopher, journalist, and critic G.K. Chesterton was born in London. He attended art school, then began a varied . . . [|**MORE**] » BY G. K. CHESTERTON

When fishes flew and forests walked And figs grew upon thorn, Some moment when the moon was blood  Then surely I was born. With monstrous head and sickening cry And ears like errant wings, The devil’s walking parody On all four-footed things. The tattered outlaw of the earth, Of ancient crooked will;Starve, scourge, deride me: I am dumb, I keep my secret still. Fools! For I also had my hour; One far fierce hour and sweet: There was a shout about my ears, And palms before my feet.