The experience of each new age requires a new confession, and the world seems always waiting for its poet.

At Harvest

Earth travails, Like a woman come to her time. The swaying corn-haulms In the heavy places of the field Cry to be gathered. ...

By Joseph Campbell
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05 November

At Even

Hush ye! Hush ye! My babe is sleeping. Hush, ye winds, that are full of sorrow! Hush, ye rains, from your weary weeping! Give him slumber until to-morrow. Hush ye,...

By Frederic Manning
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04 November

Anne Rutledge

Out of me unworthy and unknown The vibrations of deathless music; “With malice toward none, with charity for all.” Out of me the forgiveness of millions toward millions, And the...

By Edgar Lee Masters
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03 November

Arlo Will

Did you ever see an alligator Come up to the air from the mud, Staring blindly under the full glare of noon? Have you seen the stabled horses at...

By Edgar Lee Masters
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01 November


I A thin gray shadow on the edge of thought Hiding its wounds: These are the wounds of sorrow— It was my hand that made them; And this gray shadow that...

By Alice Corbin
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31 October

Annie Shore and Johnnie Doon

Annie Shore, ’twas, sang last night Down in South End saloon; A tawdry creature in the light, Painted cheeks, eyes over bright, Singing a dance-hall tune. I’d be forgetting Annie’s singing— I’d...

By Patrick Orr
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30 October

After the Martyrdom

They threw a stone, you threw a stone, I threw a stone that day. Although their sharpness bruised his flesh He had no word to say. But for the moan...

By Scharmel Iris
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29 October

A City Afternoon

Green afternoon serene and bright, along my street you sail away Sun-dappled like a ship of light that glints upon a rippled bay. Afar, freight-engines call and toll;...

By Edith Wyatt
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28 October

A Hymn to Night

Come, mysterious night; Descend and nestle to us. Descend softly on the houses We built with pride, Without worship. Fold them in...

By Max Michelson
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27 October

Black Eyes

Those black eyes I once so praised Now are hard and sharp and cold; Where 's the love that through them blazed? Where 's the tenderness of old? All is...

By William Wetmore Story
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26 October

The Voiceless

We count the broken lyres that rest Where the sweet wailing singers slumber, But o'er their silent sister's breast The wild-flowers who will stoop to number? A few can touch...

By Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.
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25 October