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| poet.id | poet.ts | poet.title | poet.poet_x_poem_id |
|---|---|---|---|
| 1 | 2018-02-28 20:18:29 | Robert Frost | {
"1": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 1,
"poem.id": 1,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:42:47",
"poem.title": "I Will Sing You One-O",
"poem.date": "3/10/2016",
"poem.content": "It was long I layAwake that nightWishing that nightWould name the hourAnd tell me whetherTo call it day(Though not yet light)And give up sleep.The snow fell deepWith the hiss of spray;Two winds would meet,One down one street,One down another,And fight in a smotherOf dust and feather.I could not say,But feared the coldHad checked the paceOf the tower clockBy tying togetherIts hands of goldBefore its face.Then cane one knock!A note unruffledOf earthly weather,Though strange and muffled.The tower said, 'One!'And then a steeple.They spoke to themselvesAnd such few peopleAs winds might rouseFrom sleeping warm(But not unhouse).They left the stormThat struck en masseMy window glassLike a beaded fur.In that grave OneThey spoke of the sunAnd moon and stars,Saturn and MarsAnd Jupiter.Still more unfettered,They left the namedAnd spoke of the lettered,The sigmas and tausOf constellations.They filled their throatsWith the furthest bodiesTo which man sends hisSpeculation,Beyond which God is;The cosmic motesOf yawning lenses.Their solemn pealsWere not their own:They spoke for the clockWith whose vast wheelsTheirs interlock.In that grave wordUttered aloneThe utmost starTrembled and stirred,Though set so farIts whirling frenziesAppear like standingin one self station.It has not ranged,And save for the wonder Of once expandingTo be a nova,It has not changedTo the eye of manOn planets overAround and underIt in creationSince man beganTo drag down manAnd nation nation.",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"2": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 2,
"poem.id": 2,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:42:48",
"poem.title": "The Witch of Coos",
"poem.date": "11/24/2015",
"poem.content": "I staid the night for shelter at a farm Behind the mountains, with a mother and son, Two old-believers. They did all the talking. MOTHER Folks think a witch who has familiar spirits She could call up to pass a winter evening, But won't, should be burned at the stake or something. Summoning spirits isn't 'Button, button, Who's got the button,' I would have them know. SON: Mother can make a common table rear And kick with two legs like an army mule. MOTHER: And when I've done it, what good have I done? Rather than tip a table for you, let me Tell you what Ralle the Sioux Control once told me. He said the dead had souls, but when I asked him How could that be - I thought the dead were souls, He broke my trance. Don't that make you suspicious That there's something the dead are keeping back? Yes, there's something the dead are keeping back. SON: You wouldn't want to tell him what we have Up attic, mother? MOTHER: Bones - a skeleton. SON: But the headboard of mother's bed is pushed Against the' attic door: the door is nailed. It's harmless. Mother hears it in the night Halting perplexed behind the barrier Of door and headboard. Where it wants to get Is back into the cellar where it came from. MOTHER: We'll never let them, will we, son! We'll never ! SON: It left the cellar forty years ago And carried itself like a pile of dishes Up one flight from the cellar to the kitchen, Another from the kitchen to the bedroom, Another from the bedroom to the attic, Right past both father and mother, and neither stopped it. Father had gone upstairs; mother was downstairs. I was a baby: I don't know where I was. MOTHER: The only fault my husband found with me - I went to sleep before I went to bed, Especially in winter when the bed Might just as well be ice and the clothes snow. The night the bones came up the cellar-stairs Toffile had gone to bed alone and left me, But left an open door to cool the room off So as to sort of turn me out of it. I was just coming to myself enough To wonder where the cold was coming from, When I heard Toffile upstairs in the bedroom And thought I heard him downstairs in the cellar. The board we had laid down to walk dry-shod on When there was water in the cellar in spring Struck the hard cellar bottom. And then someone Began the stairs, two footsteps for each step, The way a man with one leg and a crutch, Or a little child, comes up. It wasn't Toffile: It wasn't anyone who could be there. The bulkhead double-doors were double-locked And swollen tight and buried under snow. The cellar windows were banked up with sawdust And swollen tight and buried under snow. It was the bones. I knew them - and good reason. My first impulse was to get to the knob And hold the door. But the bones didn't try The door; they halted helpless on the landing, Waiting for things to happen in their favour.' The faintest restless rustling ran all through them. I never could have done the thing I did If the wish hadn't been too strong in me To see how they were mounted for this walk. I had a vision of them put together Not like a man, but like a chandelier. So suddenly I flung the door wide on him. A moment he stood balancing with emotion, And all but lost himself. (A tongue of fire Flashed out and licked along his upper teeth. Smoke rolled inside the sockets of his eyes.) Then he came at me with one hand outstretched, The way he did in life once; but this time I struck the hand off brittle on the floor, And fell back from him on the floor myself. The finger-pieces slid in all directions. (Where did I see one of those pieces lately? Hand me my button-box- it must be there.) I sat up on the floor and shouted, 'Toffile, It's coming up to you.' It had its choice Of the door to the cellar or the hall. It took the hall door for the novelty, And set off briskly for so slow a thing, Stillgoing every which way in the joints, though, So that it looked like lightning or a scribble, >From the slap I had just now given its hand. I listened till it almost climbed the stairs >From the hall to the only finished bedroom, Before I got up to do anything; Then ran and shouted, 'Shut the bedroom door, Toffile, for my sake!' 'Company?' he said, 'Don't make me get up; I'm too warm in bed.' So lying forward weakly on the handrail I pushed myself upstairs, and in the light (The kitchen had been dark) I had to own I could see nothing. 'Toffile, I don't see it. It's with us in the room though. It's the bones.' 'What bones?' 'The cellar bones- out of the grave.' That made him throw his bare legs out of bed And sit up by me and take hold of me. I wanted to put out the light and see If I could see it, or else mow the room, With our arms at the level of our knees, And bring the chalk-pile down. 'I'll tell you what- It's looking for another door to try. The uncommonly deep snow has made him think Of his old song, The Wild Colonial Boy, He always used to sing along the tote-road. He's after an open door to get out-doors. Let's trap him with an open door up attic.' Toffile agreed to that, and sure enough, Almost the moment he was given an opening, The steps began to climb the attic stairs. I heard them. Toffile didn't seem to hear them. 'Quick !' I slammed to the door and held the knob. 'Toffile, get nails.' I made him nail the door shut, And push the headboard of the bed against it. Then we asked was there anything Up attic that we'd ever want again. The attic was less to us than the cellar. If the bones liked the attic, let them have it. Let them stay in the attic. When they sometimes Come down the stairs at night and stand perplexed Behind the door and headboard of the bed, Brushing their chalky skull with chalky fingers, With sounds like the dry rattling of a shutter, That's what I sit up in the dark to say- To no one any more since Toffile died. 2o3 Let them stay in the attic since they went there. I promised Toffile to be cruel to them For helping them be cruel once to him. SON: We think they had a grave down in the cellar. MOTHER: We know they had a grave down in the cellar. SON: We never could find out whose bones they were. MOTHER: Yes, we could too, son. Tell the truth for once. They were a man's his father killed for me. I mean a man he killed instead of me. The least I could do was to help dig their grave. We were about it one night in the cellar. Son knows the story: but 'twas not for him To tell the truth, suppose the time had come. Son looks surprised to see me end a lie We'd kept all these years between ourselves So as to have it ready for outsiders. But to-night I don't care enough to lie- I don't remember why I ever cared. Toffile, if he were here, I don't believe Could tell you why he ever cared himself- She hadn't found the finger-bone she wanted Among the buttons poured out in her lap. I verified the name next morning: Toffile. The rural letter-box said Toffile Lajway.",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"3": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 3,
"poem.id": 3,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:42:53",
"poem.title": "Brown's Descent",
"poem.date": "1/14/2016",
"poem.content": "Brown lived at such a lofty farmThat everyone for miles could seeHis lantern when he did his choresIn winter after half-past three.And many must have seen him makeHis wild descent from there one night,'Cross lots, 'cross walls, 'cross everything,Describing rings of lantern light.Between the house and barn the galeGot him by something he had onAnd blew him out on the icy crustThat cased the world, and he was gone!Walls were all buried, trees were few:He saw no stay unless he stoveA hole in somewhere with his heel.But though repeatedly he stroveAnd stamped and said things to himself,And sometimes something seemed to yield,He gained no foothold, but pursuedHis journey down from field to field.Sometimes he came with arms outspreadLike wings, revolving in the sceneUpon his longer axis, andWith no small dignity of mien.Faster or slower as he chanced,Sitting or standing as he chose,According as he feared to riskHis neck, or thought to spare his clothes,He never let the lantern drop.And some exclaimed who saw afarThe figures he described with it,\"I wonder what those signals areBrown makes at such an hour of night!He's celebrating something strange.I wonder if he's sold his farm,Or been made Master of the Grange.\"He reeled, he lurched, he bobbed, he checked;He fell and made the lantern rattle(But saved the light from going out.)So half-way down he fought the battleIncredulous of his own bad luck.And then becoming reconciledTo everything, he gave it upAnd came down like a coasting child.\"Well—I—be—\" that was all he said,As standing in the river road,He looked back up the slippery slope(Two miles it was) to his abode.Sometimes as an authorityOn motor-cars, I'm asked if IShould say our stock was petered out,And this is my sincere reply:Yankees are what they always were.Don't think Brown ever gave up hopeOf getting home again becauseHe couldn't climb that slippery slope;Or even thought of standing thereUntil the January thawShould take the polish off the crust.He bowed with grace to natural law,And then went round it on his feet,After the manner of our stock;Not much concerned for those to whom,At that particular time o'clock,It must have looked as if the courseHe steered was really straight awayFrom that which he was headed for—Not much concerned for them, I say:No more so than became a man—And politician at odd seasons.I've kept Brown standing in the coldWhile I invested him with reasons;But now he snapped his eyes three times;Then shook his lantern, saying, \"Ile's'Bout out!\" and took the long way homeBy road, a matter of several miles.",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"4": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 4,
"poem.id": 4,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:42:59",
"poem.title": "The Housekeeper",
"poem.date": "3/11/2016",
"poem.content": "I let myself in at the kitchen door.'It's you,' she said. 'I can't get up. Forgive me Not answering your knock. I can no more Let people in than I can keep them out. I'm getting too old for my size, I tell them. My fingers are about all I've the use of So's to take any comfort. I can sew: I help out with this beadwork what I can.' 'That's a smart pair of pumps you're beading there. Who are they for?' 'You mean?- oh, for some miss. I can't keep track of other people's daughters. Lord, if I were to dream of everyone Whose shoes I primped to dance in!' 'And where's John?' 'Haven't you seen him? Strange what set you off To come to his house when he's gone to yours. You can't have passed each other. I know what: He must have changed his mind and gone to Garlands. He won't be long in that case. You can wait. Though what good you can be, or anyone- It's gone so far. You've heard? Estelle's run off.' 'Yes, what's it all about? When did she go?' 'Two weeks since.' 'She's in earnest, it appears.' 'I'm sure she won't come back. She's hiding somewhere. I don't know where myself. John thinks I do. He thinks I only have to say the word, And she'll come back. But, bless you, I'm her mother- I can't talk to her, and, Lord, if I could!' 'It will go hard with John. What will he do? He can't find anyone to take her place.' 'Oh, if you ask me that, what will he do? He gets some sort of bakeshop meals together, With me to sit and tell him everything, What's wanted and how much and where it is. But when I'm gone- of course I can't stay here: Estelle's to take me when she's settled down. He and I only hinder one another. I tell them they can't get me through the door, though: I've been built in here like a big church organ. We've been here fifteen years.' 'That's a long time To live together and then pull apart. How do you see him living when you're gone? Two of you out will leave an empty house.' 'I don't just see him living many years, Left here with nothing but the furniture. I hate to think of the old place when we're gone, With the brook going by below the yard, And no one here but hens blowing about. If he could sell the place, but then, he can't: No one will ever live on it again. It's too run down. This is the last of it. What I think he will do, is let things smash. He'll sort of swear the time away. He's awful! I never saw a man let family troubles Make so much difference in his man's affairs. He's just dropped everything. He's like a child. I blame his being brought up by his mother. He's got hay down that's been rained on three times. He hoed a little yesterday for me: I thought the growing things would do him good. Something went wrong. I saw him throw the hoe Sky-high with both hands. I can see it now- Come here- I'll show you- in that apple tree. That's no way for a man to do at his age: He's fifty-five, you know, if he's a day.' 'Aren't you afraid of him? What's that gun for?' 'Oh, that's been there for hawks since chicken-time. John Hall touch me! Not if he knows his friends. I'll say that for him, John's no threatener Like some men folk. No one's afraid of him; All is, he's made up his mind not to stand What he has got to stand.' 'Where is Estelle? Couldn't one talk to her? What does she say? You say you don't know where she is.' 'Nor want to! She thinks if it was bad to live with him, It must be right to leave him.' 'Which is wrong!' 'Yes, but he should have married her.' 'I know.' 'The strain's been too much for her all these years: I can't explain it any other way. It's different with a man, at least with John: He knows he's kinder than the run of men. Better than married ought to be as good As married- that's what he has always said. I know the way he's felt- but all the same!' 'I wonder why he doesn't marry her And end it.' 'Too late now: she wouldn't have him. He's given her time to think of something else. That's his mistake. The dear knows my interest Has been to keep the thing from breaking up. This is a good home: I don't ask for better. But when I've said, 'Why shouldn't they be married,' He'd say, 'Why should they?' no more words than that.' 'And after all why should they? John's been fair I take it. What was his was always hers. There was no quarrel about property.' 'Reason enough, there was no property. A friend or two as good as own the farm, Such as it is. It isn't worth the mortgage.' 'I mean Estelle has always held the purse.' 'The rights of that are harder to get at. I guess Estelle and I have filled the purse. 'Twas we let him have money, not he us. John's a bad farmer. I'm not blaming him. Take it year in, year out, he doesn't make much. We came here for a home for me, you know, Estelle to do the housework for the board Of both of us. But look how it turns out: She seems to have the housework, and besides, Half of the outdoor work, though as for that, He'd say she does it more because she likes it. You see our pretty things are all outdoors. Our hens and cows and pigs are always better Than folks like us have any business with. Farmers around twice as well off as we Haven't as good. They don't go with the farm. One thing you can't help liking about John, He's fond of nice things- too fond, some would say. But Estelle don't complain: she's like him there. She wants our hens to be the best there are. You never saw this room before a show, Full of lank, shivery, half-drowned birds In separate coops, having their plumage done. The smell of the wet feathers in the heat! You spoke of John's not being safe to stay with. You don't know what a gentle lot we are: We wouldn't hurt a hen! You ought to see us Moving a flock of hens from place to place. We're not allowed to take them upside down, All we can hold together by the legs. Two at a time's the rule, one on each arm, No matter how far and how many times We have to go.' 'You mean that's John's idea.' 'And we live up to it; or I don't know What childishness he wouldn't give way to. He manages to keep the upper hand On his own farm. He's boss. But as to hens: We fence our flowers in and the hens range. Nothing's too good for them. We say it pays. John likes to tell the offers he has had, Twenty for this cock, twenty-five for that. He never takes the money. If they're worth That much to sell, they're worth as much to keep. Bless you, it's all expense, though. Reach me down The little tin box on the cupboard shelf, The upper shelf, the tin box. That's the one. I'll show you. Here you are.' 'What's this?' 'A bill- For fifty dollars for one Langshang cock- Receipted. And the cock is in the yard.' 'Not in a glass case, then?' 'He'd need a tall one: He can eat off a barrel from the ground. He's been in a glass case, as you may say, The Crystal Palace, London. He's imported. John bought him, and we paid the bill with beads- Wampum, I call it. Mind, we don't complain. But you see, don't you, we take care of him.' 'And like it, too. It makes it all the worse.' 'It seems as if. And that's not all: he's helpless In ways that I can hardly tell you of. Sometimes he gets possessed to keep accounts To see where all the money goes so fast. You know how men will be ridiculous. But it's just fun the way he gets bedeviled- If he's untidy now, what will he be- - ? 'It makes it all the worse. You must be blind.' 'Estelle's the one. You needn't talk to me.' 'Can't you and I get to the root of it? What's the real trouble? What will satisfy her?' 'It's as I say: she's turned from him, that's all.' 'But why, when she's well off? Is it the neighbours, Being cut off from friends?' 'We have our friends. That isn't it. Folks aren't afraid of us.' 'She's let it worry her. You stood the strain, And you're her mother.' 'But I didn't always. I didn't relish it along at first. But I got wonted to it. And besides- John said I was too old to have grandchildren. But what's the use of talking when it's done? She won't come back- it's worse than that- she can't.' 'Why do you speak like that? What do you know? What do you mean?- she's done harm to herself?' 'I mean she's married- married someone else.' 'Oho, oho!' 'You don't believe me.' 'Yes, I do, Only too well. I knew there must be something! So that was what was back. She's bad, that's all!' 'Bad to get married when she had the chance?' 'Nonsense! See what's she done! But who, who- - ' 'Who'd marry her straight out of such a mess? Say it right out- no matter for her mother. The man was found. I'd better name no names. John himself won't imagine who he is.' 'Then it's all up. I think I'll get away. You'll be expecting John. I pity Estelle; I suppose she deserves some pity, too. You ought to have the kitchen to yourself To break it to him. You may have the job.' 'You needn't think you're going to get away. John's almost here. I've had my eye on someone Coming down Ryan's Hill. I thought 'twas him. Here he is now. This box! Put it away. And this bill.' 'What's the hurry? He'll unhitch.' 'No, he won't, either. He'll just drop the reins And turn Doll out to pasture, rig and all. She won't get far before the wheels hang up On something- there's no harm. See, there he is! My, but he looks as if he must have heard!' John threw the door wide but he didn't enter.'How are you, neighbour? Just the man I'm after. Isn't it Hell,' he said. 'I want to know. Come out here if you want to hear me talk. I'll talk to you, old woman, afterward. I've got some news that maybe isn't news. What are they trying to do to me, these two?' 'Do go along with him and stop his shouting.' She raised her voice against the closing door:'Who wants to hear your news, you- dreadful fool?'",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"5": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 5,
"poem.id": 5,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:43:04",
"poem.title": "The Generations of Men",
"poem.date": "5/16/2015",
"poem.content": "A governor it was proclaimed this time, When all who would come seeking in New Hampshire Ancestral memories might come together. And those of the name Stark gathered in Bow, A rock-strewn town where farming has fallen off, And sprout-lands flourish where the axe has gone. Someone had literally run to earth In an old cellar hole in a by-road The origin of all the family there. Thence they were sprung, so numerous a tribe That now not all the houses left in town Made shift to shelter them without the help Of here and there a tent in grove and orchard. They were at Bow, but that was not enough: Nothing would do but they must fix a day To stand together on the crater's verge That turned them on the world, and try to fathom The past and get some strangeness out of it. But rain spoiled all. The day began uncertain, With clouds low trailing and moments of rain that misted. The young folk held some hope out to each other Till well toward noon when the storm settled down With a swish in the grass. 'What if the others Are there,' they said. 'It isn't going to rain.' Only one from a farm not far away Strolled thither, not expecting he would find Anyone else, but out of idleness. One, and one other, yes, for there were two. The second round the curving hillside road Was a girl; and she halted some way off To reconnoitre, and then made up her mind At least to pass by and see who he was, And perhaps hear some word about the weather. This was some Stark she didn't know. He nodded. 'No fête to-day,' he said. 'It looks that way.' She swept the heavens, turning on her heel. 'I only idled down.' 'I idled down.' Provision there had been for just such meeting Of stranger cousins, in a family tree Drawn on a sort of passport with the branch Of the one bearing it done in detail- Some zealous one's laborious device. She made a sudden movement toward her bodice, As one who clasps her heart. They laughed together. 'Stark?' he inquired. 'No matter for the proof.' 'Yes, Stark. And you?' 'I'm Stark.' He drew his passport. 'You know we might not be and still be cousins: The town is full of Chases, Lowes, and Baileys, All claiming some priority in Starkness. My mother was a Lane, yet might have married Anyone upon earth and still her children Would have been Starks, and doubtless here to-day.' 'You riddle with your genealogy Like a Viola. I don't follow you.' 'I only mean my mother was a Stark Several times over, and by marrying father No more than brought us back into the name.' 'One ought not to be thrown into confusion By a plain statement of relationship, But I own what you say makes my head spin. You take my card- you seem so good at such things- And see if you can reckon our cousinship. Why not take seats here on the cellar wall And dangle feet among the raspberry vines?' 'Under the shelter of the family tree.' 'Just so- that ought to be enough protection.' 'Not from the rain. I think it's going to rain.' 'It's raining.' 'No, it's misting; let's be fair. Does the rain seem to you to cool the eyes?' The situation was like this: the road Bowed outward on the mountain half-way up, And disappeared and ended not far off. No one went home that way. The only house Beyond where they were was a shattered seedpod. And below roared a brook hidden in trees, The sound of which was silence for the place. This he sat listening to till she gave judgment. 'On father's side, it seems, we're- let me see- - ' 'Don't be too technical.- You have three cards.' 'Four cards, one yours, three mine, one for each branch Of the Stark family I'm a member of.' 'D'you know a person so related to herself Is supposed to be mad.' 'I may be mad.' 'You look so, sitting out here in the rain Studying genealogy with me You never saw before. What will we come to With all this pride of ancestry, we Yankees? I think we're all mad. Tell me why we're here Drawn into town about this cellar hole Like wild geese on a lake before a storm? What do we see in such a hole, I wonder.' 'The Indians had a myth of Chicamoztoc, Which means The Seven Caves that We Came out of. This is the pit from which we Starks were digged.' 'You must be learned. That's what you see in it?' 'And what do you see?' 'Yes, what do I see? First let me look. I see raspberry vines- - ' 'Oh, if you're going to use your eyes, just hear What I see. It's a little, little boy, As pale and dim as a match flame in the sun; He's groping in the cellar after jam, He thinks it's dark and it's flooded with daylight.' 'He's nothing. Listen. When I lean like this I can make out old Grandsir Stark distinctly,- With his pipe in his mouth and his brown jug- Bless you, it isn't Grandsir Stark, it's Granny, But the pipe's there and smoking and the jug. She's after cider, the old girl, she's thirsty; Here's hoping she gets her drink and gets out safely.' 'Tell me about her. Does she look like me?' 'She should, shouldn't she, you're so many times Over descended from her. I believe She does look like you. Stay the way you are. The nose is just the same, and so's the chin- Making allowance, making due allowance.' 'You poor, dear, great, great, great, great Granny!' 'See that you get her greatness right. Don't stint her.' 'Yes, it's important, though you think it isn't. I won't be teased. But see how wet I am.' 'Yes, you must go; we can't stay here for ever. But wait until I give you a hand up. A bead of silver water more or less Strung on your hair won't hurt your summer looks. I wanted to try something with the noise That the brook raises in the empty valley. We have seen visions- now consult the voices. Something I must have learned riding in trains When I was young. I used the roar To set the voices speaking out of it, Speaking or singing, and the band-music playing. Perhaps you have the art of what I mean. I've never listened in among the sounds That a brook makes in such a wild descent. It ought to give a purer oracle.' 'It's as you throw a picture on a screen: The meaning of it all is out of you; The voices give you what you wish to hear.' 'Strangely, it's anything they wish to give.' 'Then I don't know. It must be strange enough. I wonder if it's not your make-believe. What do you think you're like to hear to-day?' 'From the sense of our having been together- But why take time for what I'm like to hear? I'll tell you what the voices really say. You will do very well right where you are A little longer. I mustn't feel too hurried, Or I can't give myself to hear the voices.' 'Is this some trance you are withdrawing into?' 'You must be very still; you mustn't talk.' 'I'll hardly breathe.' 'The voices seem to say- - ' 'I'm waiting.' 'Don't! The voices seem to say: Call her Nausicaa, the unafraid Of an acquaintance made adventurously.' 'I let you say that- on consideration.' 'I don't see very well how you can help it. You want the truth. I speak but by the voices. You see they know I haven't had your name, Though what a name should matter between us- - ' 'I shall suspect- - ' 'Be good. The voices say: Call her Nausicaa, and take a timber That you shall find lies in the cellar charred Among the raspberries, and hew and shape it For a door-sill or other corner piece In a new cottage on the ancient spot. The life is not yet all gone out of it. And come and make your summer dwelling here, And perhaps she will come, still unafraid, And sit before you in the open door With flowers in her lap until they fade, But not come in across the sacred sill- - ' 'I wonder where your oracle is tending. You can see that there's something wrong with it, Or it would speak in dialect. Whose voice Does it purport to speak in? Not old Grandsir's Nor Granny's, surely. Call up one of them. They have best right to be heard in this place.' 'You seem so partial to our great-grandmother (Nine times removed. Correct me if I err.) You will be likely to regard as sacred Anything she may say. But let me warn you, Folks in her day were given to plain speaking. You think you'd best tempt her at such a time?' 'It rests with us always to cut her off.' 'Well then, it's Granny speaking: 'I dunnow! Mebbe I'm wrong to take it as I do. There ain't no names quite like the old ones though, Nor never will be to my way of thinking. One mustn't bear too hard on the new comers, But there's a dite too many of them for comfort. I should feel easier if I could see More of the salt wherewith they're to be salted. Son, you do as you're told! You take the timber- It's as sound as the day when it was cut- And begin over- - ' There, she'd better stop. You can see what is troubling Granny, though. But don't you think we sometimes make too much Of the old stock? What counts is the ideals, And those will bear some keeping still about.' 'I can see we are going to be good friends.' 'I like your 'going to be.' You said just now It's going to rain.' 'I know, and it was raining. I let you say all that. But I must go now.' 'You let me say it? on consideration? How shall we say good-bye in such a case?' 'How shall we?' 'Will you leave the way to me?' 'No, I don't trust your eyes. You've said enough. Now give me your hand up.- Pick me that flower.' 'Where shall we meet again?' 'Nowhere but here Once more before we meet elsewhere.' 'In rain?' 'It ought to be in rain. Sometime in rain. In rain to-morrow, shall we, if it rains? But if we must, in sunshine.' So she went.",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"6": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 6,
"poem.id": 6,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:43:06",
"poem.title": "Wild Grapes",
"poem.date": "3/11/2016",
"poem.content": "What tree may not the fig be gathered from? The grape may not be gathered from the birch?It's all you know the grape, or know the birch.As a girl gathered from the birch myselfEqually with my weight in grapes, one autumn,I ought to know what tree the grape is fruit of.I was born, I suppose, like anyone,And grew to be a little boyish girlMy brother could not always leave at home.But that beginning was wiped out in fearThe day I swung suspended with the grapes,And was come after like EurydiceAnd brought down safely from the upper regions;And the life I live now's an extra lifeI can waste as I please on whom I please.So if you see me celebrate two birthdays,And give myself out of two different ages,One of them five years younger than I look-One day my brother led me to a gladeWhere a white birch he knew of stood alone,Wearing a thin head-dress of pointed leaves,And heavy on her heavy hair behind,Against her neck, an ornament of grapes.Grapes, I knew grapes from having seen them last year.One bunch of them, and there began to beBunches all round me growing in white birches,The way they grew round Leif the Lucky's German;Mostly as much beyond my lifted hands, though,As the moon used to seem when I was younger,And only freely to be had for climbing.My brother did the climbing; and at firstThrew me down grapes to miss and scatterAnd have to hunt for in sweet fern and hardhack;Which gave him some time to himself to eat,But not so much, perhaps, as a boy needed.So then, to make me wholly self-supporting,He climbed still higher and bent the tree to earthAnd put it in my hands to pick my own grapes.'Here, take a tree-top, I'll get down another.Hold on with all your might when I let go.'I said I had the tree. It wasn't true.The opposite was true. The tree had me.The minute it was left with me aloneIt caught me up as if I were the fishAnd it the fishpole. So I was translatedTo loud cries from my brother of 'Let go!Don't you know anything, you girl? Let go!'But I, with something of the baby gripAcquired ancestrally in just such treesWhen wilder mothers than our wildest nowHung babies out on branches by the handsTo dry or wash or tan, I don't know which,(You'll have to ask an evolutionist)-I held on uncomplainingly for life.My brother tried to make me laugh to help me.'What are you doing up there in those grapes?Don't be afraid. A few of them won't hurt you.I mean, they won't pick you if you don't them.'Much danger of my picking anything!By that time I was pretty well reducedTo a philosophy of hang-and-let-hang.'Now you know how it feels,' my brother said,'To be a bunch of fox-grapes, as they call them,That when it thinks it has escaped the foxBy growing where it shouldn't-on a birch,Where a fox wouldn't think to look for it-And if he looked and found it, couldn't reach it-Just then come you and I to gather it.Only you have the advantage of the grapesIn one way: you have one more stem to cling by,And promise more resistance to the picker.'One by one I lost off my hat and shoes,And still I clung. I let my head fall back,And shut my eyes against the sun, my earsAgainst my brother's nonsense; 'Drop,' he said,'I'll catch you in my arms. It isn't far.'(Stated in lengths of him it might not be.)'Drop or I'll shake the tree and shake you down.'Grim silence on my part as I sank lower,My small wrists stretching till they showed the banjo strings.'Why, if she isn't serious about it!Hold tight awhile till I think what to do.I'll bend the tree down and let you down by it.'I don't know much about the letting down;But once I felt ground with my stocking feetAnd the world came revolving back to me,I know I looked long at my curled-up fingers,Before I straightened them and brushed the bark off.My brother said: 'Don't you weigh anything?Try to weigh something next time, so you won'tBe run off with by birch trees into space.'It wasn't my not weighing anythingSo much as my not knowing anything-My brother had been nearer right before.I had not taken the first step in knowledge;I had not learned to let go with the hands,As still I have not learned to with the heart,And have no wish to with the heart-nor need,That I can see. The mind-is not the heart.I may yet live, as I know others live,To wish in vain to let go with the mind-Of cares, at night, to sleep; but nothing tells meThat I need learn to let go with the heart.",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"7": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 7,
"poem.id": 7,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:43:11",
"poem.title": "The Egg and the Machine",
"poem.date": "3/11/2016",
"poem.content": "He gave the solid rail a hateful kick.From far away there came an answering tickAnd then another tick. He knew the code:His hate had roused an engine up the road.He wished when he had had the track aloneHe had attacked it with a club or stoneAnd bent some rail wide open like switchSo as to wreck the engine in the ditch.Too late though, now, he had himself to thank.Its click was rising to a nearer clank.Here it came breasting like a horse in skirts.(He stood well back for fear of scalding squirts.)Then for a moment all there was was sizeConfusion and a roar that drowned the criesHe raised against the gods in the machine.Then once again the sandbank lay serene.The traveler's eye picked up a turtle train,between the dotted feet a streak of tail,And followed it to where he made out vagueBut certain signs of buried turtle's egg;And probing with one finger not too rough,He found suspicious sand, and sure enough,The pocket of a little turtle mine.If there was one egg in it there were nine,Torpedo-like, with shell of gritty leatherAll packed in sand to wait the trump together.'You'd better not disturb any more,'He told the distance, 'I am armed for war.The next machine that has the power to passWill get this plasm in it goggle glass.'",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"8": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 8,
"poem.id": 8,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:43:13",
"poem.title": "Looking for a Sunset Bird in Winter",
"poem.date": "5/6/2015",
"poem.content": "The west was getting out of gold,The breath of air had died of cold,When shoeing home across the white,I thought I saw a bird alight.In summer when I passed the placeI had to stop and lift my face;A bird with an angelic giftWas singing in it sweet and swift.No bird was singing in it now.A single leaf was on a bough,And that was all there was to seeIn going twice around the tree.From my advantage on a hillI judged that such a crystal chillWas only adding frost to snowAs gilt to gold that wouldn't show.A brush had left a crooked strokeOf what was either cloud or smokeFrom north to south across the blue;A piercing little star was through.",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"9": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 9,
"poem.id": 9,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:43:18",
"poem.title": "An Empty Threat",
"poem.date": "3/11/2016",
"poem.content": "I stay;But it isn't as ifThere wasn't always Hudson's BayAnd the fur trade,A small skiffAnd a paddle blade.I can just see my tent pegged,And me on the floor,Cross-legged,And a trapper looking in at the doorWith furs to sell.His name's Joe,Alias John,And between what he doesn't knowAnd won't tellAbout where Henry Hudson's gone,I can't say he's much help;But we get on.The seal yelpOn an ice cake.It's not men by some mistake?No,There's not a soulFor a windbreakBetween me and the North Pole—Except always John-Joe,My French Indian Esquimaux,And he's off setting trapsIn one himself perhaps.Give a headshakeOver so much bayThrown awayIn snow and mistThat doesn't exist,I was going to say,For God, man, or beast's sake,Yet does perhaps for all three.Don't ask JoeWhat it is to him.It's sometimes dimWhat it is to me,Unless it beIt's the old captain's dark fateWho failed to find or force a straitIn its two-thousand-mile coast;And his crew left him where be failed,And nothing came of all be sailed.It's to say, 'You and I—'To such a ghost—You and IOff hereWith the dead race of the Great Auk!'And, 'Better defeat almost,If seen clear,Than life's victories of doubtThat need endless talk-talkTo make them out.'",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"10": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 10,
"poem.id": 10,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:43:23",
"poem.title": "The Times Table",
"poem.date": "3/11/2016",
"poem.content": "More than halfway up the passWas a spring with a broken drinking glass,And whether the farmer drank or notHis mare was sure to observe the spotBy cramping the wheel on a water-bar,turning her forehead with a star,And straining her ribs for a monster sigh;To which the farmer would make reply,'A sigh for every so many breath,And for every so many sigh a death.That's what I always tell my wifeIs the multiplication table of life.'The saying may be ever so true;But it's just the kind of a thing that youNor I, nor nobody else may say,Unless our purpose is doing harm,And then I know of no better wayTo close a road, abandon a farm,Reduce the births of the human race,And bring back nature in people's place.",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"11": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 11,
"poem.id": 11,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:43:29",
"poem.title": "The Last Mowing",
"poem.date": "3/11/2016",
"poem.content": "There's a place called Far-away MeadowWe never shall mow in again,Or such is the talk at the farmhouse:The meadow is finished with men.Then now is the chance for the flowersThat can't stand mowers and plowers.It must be now, through, in seasonBefore the not mowing brings trees on,Before trees, seeing the opening,March into a shadowy claim.The trees are all I'm afraid of,That flowers can't bloom in the shade of;It's no more men I'm afraid of;The meadow is done with the tame.The place for the moment is oursFor you, oh tumultuous flowers,To go to waste and go wild in,All shapes and colors of flowers,I needn't call you by name.",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"12": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 12,
"poem.id": 12,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:43:32",
"poem.title": "Immigrants",
"poem.date": "6/8/2015",
"poem.content": "No ship of all that under sail or steamHave gathered people to us more and moreBut Pilgrim-manned the Mayflower in a dreamHas been her anxious convoy in to shore.",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"13": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 13,
"poem.id": 13,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:43:36",
"poem.title": "On a Tree Fallen Across the Road",
"poem.date": "3/10/2016",
"poem.content": "(To hear us talk)The tree the tempest with a crash of woodThrows down in front of us is not barOur passage to our journey's end for good,But just to ask us who we think we areInsisting always on our own way so.She likes to halt us in our runner tracks,And make us get down in a foot of snowDebating what to do without an ax.And yet she knows obstruction is in vain:We will not be put off the final goalWe have it hidden in us to attain,Not though we have to seize earth by the poleAnd, tired of aimless circling in one place,Steer straight off after something into space.",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14,
"poem.id": 14,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:43:42",
"poem.title": "Riders",
"poem.date": "3/10/2016",
"poem.content": "The surest thing there is is we are riders,And though none too successful at it, guiders,Through everything presented, land and tideAnd now the very air, of what we ride.What is this talked-of mystery of birthBut being mounted bareback on the earth?We can just see the infant up astride,His small fist buried in the bushy hide.There is our wildest mount- a headless horse.But though it runs unbridled off its course,And all our blandishments would seem defied,We have ideas yet that we haven't tried.",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"15": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15,
"poem.id": 15,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:43:46",
"poem.title": "The Pauper Witch of Grafton",
"poem.date": "3/1/2016",
"poem.content": "NOW that they've got it settled whose I be,I'm going to tell them something they won't like:They've got it settled wrong, and I can prove it.Flattered I must be to have two towns fightingTo make a present of me to each other.They don't dispose me, either one of them,To spare them any trouble. Double trouble'sAlways the witch's motto anyway.I'll double theirs for both of them- you watch me.They'll find they've got the whole thing to do over,That is, if facts is what they want to go by.They set a lot (now don't they?) by a recordOf Arthur Amy's having once been upFor Hog Reeve in March Meeting here in Warren.I could have told them any time this twelvemonthThe Arthur Amy I was married toCouldn't have been the one they say was upIn Warren at March Meeting for the reasonHe wa'n't but fifteen at the time they say.The Arthur Amy I was married tovoted the only times he ever voted,Which wasn't many, in the town of Wentworth.One of the times was when 'twas in the warrantTo see if the town wanted to take overThe tote road to our clearing where we lived.I'll tell you who'd remember- Heman Lapish.Their Arthur Amy was the father of mine.So now they've dragged it through the law courts onceI guess they'd better drag it through again.Wentworth and Warren's both good towns to live in,Only I happen to prefer to liveIn Wentworth from now on; and when all's said,Right's right, and the temptation to do rightWhen I can hurt someone by doing itHas always been too much for me, it has.I know of some folks that'd be set upAt having in their town a noted witch:But most would have to think of the expenseThat even I would be. They ought to knowThat as a witch I'd often milk a batAnd that'd be enough to last for days.It'd make my position stronger, I think,If I was to consent to give some signTo make it surer that I was a witch?It wa'n't no sign, I s'pose, when Mallice HuseSaid that I took him out in his old ageAnd rode all over everything on himUntil I'd had him worn to skin and bones,And if I'd left him hitched unblanketedIn front of one Town Hall, I'd left him hitchedIn front of every one in Grafton County.Some cried shame on me not to blanket him,The poor old man. It would have been all rightIf some one hadn't said to gnaw the postsHe stood beside and leave his trade mark on them,So they could recognize them. Not a postThat they could hear tell of was scarified.They made him keep on gnawing till he whined.Then that same smarty someone said to look- He'd bet Huse was a cribber and had gnawedThe crib he slept in- and as sure's you're bornThey found he'd gnawed the four posts of his bed,All four of them to splinters. What did that prove?Not that he hadn't gnawed the hitching postsHe said he had besides. Because a horseGnaws in the stable ain't no proof to meHe don't gnaw trees and posts and fences too.But everybody took it for proof.I was a strapping girl of twenty then.The smarty someone who spoiled everythingWas Arthur Amy. You know who he was.That was the way he started courting me.He never said much after we were married,But I mistrusted he was none too proudOf having interfered in the Huse business.I guess he found he got more out of meBy having me a witch. Or something happenedTo turn him round. He got to saying thingsTo undo what he'd done and make it right,Like, 'No, she ain't come back from kiting yet.Last night was one of her nights out. She's kiting.She thinks when the wind makes a night of itShe might as well herself.' But he liked bestTo let on he was plagued to death with me:If anyone had seen me coming homeOver the ridgepole, 'stride of a broomstick,As often as he had in the tail of the night,He guessed they'd know what he had to put up with.Well, I showed Arthur Amy signs enoughOff from the house as far as we could keepAnd from barn smells you can't wash out of ploughed groundWith all the rain and snow of seven years;And I don't mean just skulls of Roger's RangersOn Moosilauke, but woman signs to man,Only bewitched so I would last him longer.Up where the trees grow short, the mosses tall,I made him gather me wet snow berriesOn slippery rocks beside a waterfall.I made him do it for me in the dark.And he liked everything I made him do.I hope if he is where he sees me nowHe's so far off he can't see what I've come to.You _can_ come down from everything to nothing.All is, if I'd a-known when I was youngAnd full of it, that this would be the end,It doesn't seem as if I'd had the courageTo make so free and kick up in folks' faces.I might have, but it doesn't seem as if.",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"16": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16,
"poem.id": 16,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:43:51",
"poem.title": "Locked Out",
"poem.date": "3/11/2016",
"poem.content": "As told to a childWhen we locked up the house at night,We always locked the flowers outsideAnd cut them off from window light.The time I dreamed the door was triedAnd brushed with buttons upon sleeves,The flowers were out there with the thieves.Yet nobody molested them!We did find one nasturtiumUpon the steps with bitten stem.I may have been to blame for that:I always thought it must have beenSome Hower I played with as I satAt dusk to watch the moon down early.",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"17": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 17,
"poem.id": 17,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:43:59",
"poem.title": "Good Hours",
"poem.date": "3/10/2016",
"poem.content": "I had for my winter evening walk- No one at all with whom to talk,But I had the cottages in a rowUp to their shining eyes in snow.And I thought I had the folk within:I had the sound of a violin;I had a glimpse through curtain lacesOf youthful forms and youthful faces.I had such company outward bound.I went till there were no cottages found.I turned and repented, but coming backI saw no window but that was black.Over the snow my creaking feetDisturbed the slumbering village streetLike profanation, by your leave,At ten o'clock of a winter eve.",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"18": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 18,
"poem.id": 18,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:44:01",
"poem.title": "New Hampshire",
"poem.date": "3/11/2016",
"poem.content": "I met a lady from the South who said(You won't believe she said it, but she said it):'None of my family ever worked, or hadA thing to sell.' I don't suppose the workMuch matters. You may work for all of me.I've seen the time I've had to work myself.The having anything to sell is whatIs the disgrace in man or state or nation.I met a traveler from ArkansasWho boasted of his state as beautifulFor diamonds and apples. 'DiamondsAnd apples in commercial quantities?'I asked him, on my guard. 'Oh, yes,' he answered,Off his. The time was evening in the Pullman.I see the porter's made your bed,' I told him.I met a Californian who wouldTalk California—a state so blessed,He said, in climate, none bad ever died thereA natural death, and Vigilance CommitteesHad had to organize to stock the graveyardsAnd vindicate the state's humanity.'Just the way Stefansson runs on,' I murmured,'About the British Arctic. That's what comesOf being in the market with a climate.'I met a poet from another state,A zealot full of fluid inspiration,Who in the name of fluid inspiration,But in the best style of bad salesmanship,Angrily tried to male me write a protest(In verse I think) against the Volstead Act.He didn't even offer me a drinkUntil I asked for one to steady him.This is called having an idea to sell.It never could have happened in New Hampshire.The only person really soiled with tradeI ever stumbled on in old New HampshireWas someone who had just come back ashamedFrom selling things in California.He'd built a noble mansard roof with ballsOn turrets, like Constantinople, deepIn woods some ten miles from a railroad station,As if to put forever out of mindThe hope of being, as we say, received.I found him standing at the close of dayInside the threshold of his open barn,Like a lone actor on a gloomy stage—And recognized him, through the iron grayIn which his face was muffled to the eyes,As an old boyhood friend, and once indeedA drover with me on the road to Brighton.His farm was 'grounds,' and not a farm at all;His house among the local sheds and shantiesRose like a factor's at a trading station.And be was rich, and I was still a rascal.I couldn't keep from asking impolitely,Where bad he been and what had he been doing?How did he get so? (Rich was understood.)In dealing in 'old rags' in San Francisco.Ob, it was terrible as well could be.We both of us turned over in our graves.Just specimens is all New Hampshire has,One each of everything as in a showcase,Which naturally she doesn't care to sell.She had one President. (Pronounce him Purse,And make the most of it for better or worse.He's your one chance to score against the state.)She had one Daniel Webster. He was allThe Daniel Webster ever was or shall be.She had the Dartmouth' needed to produce him.I call her old. She has one familyWhose claim is good to being settled hereBefore the era of colonization,And before that of exploration even.John Smith remarked them as be coasted by,Dangling their legs and fishing off a wharfAt the Isles of Shoals, and satisfied himselfThey weren't Red Indians but veritablePre-primitives of the white race, dawn people,Like those who furnished Adam's sons with wives;However uninnocent they may have beenIn being there so early in our history.They'd been there then a hundred years or more.Pity he didn't ask what they were up toAt that date with a wharf already built,And take their name. They've since told me their name—Today an honored one in Nottingham.As for what they were up to more than fishing—Suppose they weren't behaving Puritanly,The hour bad not yet struck for being good,Mankind had not yet gone on the Sabbatical.It became an explorer of the deepNot to explore too deep in others' business.Did you but know of him, New Hampshire hasOne real reformer who would change the worldSo it would be accepted by two classes,Artists the minute they set up as artists,Before, that is, they are themselves accepted,And boys the minute they get out of college.I can't help thinking those are tests to go by.And she has one I don't know what to call him,Who comes from Philadelphia every yearWith a great flock of chickens of rare breedsHe wants to give the educationalAdvantages of growing almost wildUnder the watchful eye of hawk and eagle Dorkings because they're spoken of by Chaucer,Sussex because they're spoken of by Herrick.She has a touch of gold. New Hampshire gold—You may have heard of it. I had a farmOffered me not long since up Berlin wayWith a mine on it that was worked for gold;But not gold in commercial quantities,Just enough gold to make the engagement ringsAnd marriage rings of those who owned the farm.What gold more innocent could one have asked for?One of my children ranging after rocksLately brought home from Andover or CanaanA specimen of beryl with a traceOf radium. I know with radiumThe trace would have to be the merest trace To be below the threshold of commercial;But trust New Hampshire not to have enoughOf radium or anything to sell.A specimen of everything, I said.She has one witch—old style. She lives in Colebrook.(The only other witch I ever metWas lately at a cut-glass dinner in Boston.There were four candles and four people present.The witch was young, and beautiful (new style),And open-minded. She was free to questionHer gift for reading letters locked in boxes.Why was it so much greater when the boxesWere metal than it was when they were wooden?It made the world seem so mysterious.The S'ciety for Psychical ResearchWas cognizant. Her husband was worth millions.I think he owned some shares in Harvard College.)New Hampshire used to have at SalemA company we called the White Corpuscles,Whose duty was at any hour of nightTo rush in sheets and fool's caps where they smelledA thing the least bit doubtfully perscentedAnd give someone the Skipper Ireson's Ride.One each of everything as in a showcase.More than enough land for a specimenYou'll say she has, but there there enters inSomething else to protect her from herself.There quality makes up for quantity.Not even New Hampshire farms are much for sale.The farm I made my home on in the mountains 1 had to take by force rather than buy.I caught the owner outdoors by himselfRaking.up after winter, and I said,\"I'm going to put you off this farm: I want it.'\"Where are you going to put me? In the road?\"\"I'm going to put you on the farm next to it.\"\"Why won't the farm next to it do for you?''I like this better.' It was really better.Apples? New Hampshire has them, but unsprayed,With no suspicion in stern end or blossom end Of vitriol or arsenate of lead,And so not good for anything but cider.Her unpruned grapes are flung like lariatsFar up the birches out of reach of man.A state producing precious metals, stones,And—writing; none of these except perhapsThe precious literature in quantityOr quality to worry the producerAbout disposing of it. Do you know,Considering the market, there are morePoems produced than any other thing?No wonder poets sometimes have to seemSo much more businesslike than businessmen.Their wares are so much harder to get rid of.She's one of the two best states in the Union.Vermont's the other. And the two have beenYokefellows in the sap yoke from of oldIn many Marches. And they lie like wedges,Thick end to thin end and thin end to thick end,And are a figure of the way the strongOf mind and strong of arm should fit together,One thick where one is thin and vice versa.New Hampshire raises the Connecticut In a trout hatchery near Canada,But soon divides the river with Vermont.Both are delightful states for their absurdlySmall towns—Lost Nation, Bungey, Muddy Boo,Poplin, Still Corners (so called not becauseThe place is silent all day long, nor yetBecause it boasts a whisky still—becauseIt set out once to be a city and stillIs only corners, crossroads in a wood).And I remember one whose name appearedBetween the pictures on a movie screenElection night once in Franconia,When everything had gone RepublicanAnd Democrats were sore in need of comfort:Easton goes Democratic, Wilson 4Hughes 2. And everybody to the saddestLaughed the loud laugh the big laugh at the little.New York (five million) laughs at Manchester,Manchester (sixty or seventy thousand) laughsAt Littleton (four thousand), LittletonLaughs at Franconia (seven hundred), andFranconia laughs, I fear—-did laugh that night- At Easton. What has Easton left to laugh at,And like the actress exclaim 'Oh, my God' at?There's Bungey; and for Bungey there are towns,Whole townships named but without population.Anything I can say about New HampshireWill serve almost as well about Vermont,Excepting that they differ in their mountains.The Vermont mountains stretch extended straight;New Hampshire mountains Curl up in a coil.I had been coming to New Hampshire mountains.And here I am and what am I to say?Here first my theme becomes embarrassing.Emerson said, 'The God who made New HampshireTaunted the lofty land with little men.'Anotner Massachusetts poet said, 'I go no more to summer in New Hampshire.I've given up my summer place in Dublin.'But when I asked to know what ailed New Hampshire,She said she couldn't stand the people in it,The little men (it's Massachusetts speaking). And when I asked to know what ailed the people,She said, 'Go read your own books and find out.'I may as well confess myself the authorOf several books against the world in general.To take them as against a special state Or even nation's to restrict my meaning.I'm what is called a sensibilitist,Or otherwise an environmentalist.I refuse to adapt myself a miteTo any change from hot to cold, from wet To dry, from poor to rich, or back again.I make a virtue of my sufferingFrom nearly everything that goes on round me.In other words, I know wherever I am,Being the creature of literature I am, 1 sball not lack for pain to keep me awake.Kit Marlowe taught me how to say my prayers:'Why, this is Hell, nor am I out of it.'Samoa, Russia, Ireland I complain of,No less than England, France, and Italy. Because I wrote my novels in New HampshireIs no proof that I aimed them at New Hampshire.When I left Massachusetts years agoBetween two days, the reason why I soughtNew Hampshire, not Connecticut,Rhode Island, New York, or Vermont was this:Where I was living then, New Hampshire offeredThe nearest boundary to escape across.I hadn't an illusion in my handbagAbout the people being better thereThan those I left behind. I thought they weren't.I thought they couldn't be. And yet they were.I'd sure had no such friends in MassachusettsAs Hall of Windham, Gay of Atkinson,Bartlett of Raymond (now of Colorado),Harris of Derry, and Lynch of Bethlehem.The glorious bards of Massachusetts seemTo want to make New Hampshire people over.They taunt the lofty land with little men.I don't know what to say about the people.For art's sake one could almost wish them worseRather than better. How are we to writeThe Russian novel in AmericaAs long as life goes so unterribly?There is the pinch from which our only outcry In literature to date is heard to come.We get what little misery we canOut of not having cause for misery.It makes the guild of novel writers sickTo be expected to be DostoievskisOn nothing worse than too much luck and comfort.This is not sorrow, though; it's just the vapors,And recognized as such in Russia itselfUnder the new regime, and so forbidden.If well it is with Russia, then feel free To say so or be stood against the wallAnd shot. It's Pollyanna now or death.This, then, is the new freedom we hear tell of;And very sensible. No state can buildA literature that shall at once be soundAnd sad on a foundation of well-being.To show the level of intelligenceAmong us: it was just a Warren farmerWhose horse had pulled him short up in the roadBy me, a stranger. This is what he said,From nothing but embarrassment and wantOf anything more sociable to say:'You hear those bound dogs sing on Moosilauke?Well, they remind me of the hue and cryWe've heard against the Mid - Victorians And never rightly understood till BryanRetired from politics and joined the chorus.The matter with the Mid-VictoriansSeems to have been a man named Joh n L. Darwin.''Go 'long,' I said to him, he to his horse.I knew a man who failing as a farmerBurned down his farmhouse for the fire insurance,And spent the proceeds on a telescopeTo satisfy a lifelong curiosityAbout our place among the infinities.And how was that for otherworldliness?If I must choose which I would elevate —The people or the already lofty mountainsI'd elevate the already lofty mountainsThe only fault I find with old New Hampshire Is that her mountains aren't quite high enough.I was not always so; I've come to be so.How, to my sorrow, how have I attainedA height from which to look down criticalOn mountains? What has given me assuranceTo say what height becomes New Hampshire mountains,Or any mountains? Can it be some strengthI feel, as of an earthquake in my back,To heave them higher to the morning star?Can it be foreign travel in the Alps?Or having seen and credited a momentThe solid molding of vast peaks of cloudBehind the pitiful realityOf Lincoln, Lafayette, and Liberty?Or some such sense as says bow high shall jetThe fountain in proportion to the basin?No, none of these has raised me to my throneOf intellectual dissatisfaction,But the sad accident of having seenOur actual mountains given in a mapOf early times as twice the height they are—Ten thousand feet instead of only five—Which shows how sad an accident may be.Five thousand is no longer high enough.Whereas I never had a good ideaAbout improving people in the world,Here I am overfertile in suggestion,And cannot rest from planning day or nightHow high I'd thrust the peaks in summer snowTo tap the upper sky and draw a flowOf frosty night air on the vale belowDown from the stars to freeze the dew as starry.The more the sensibilitist I amThe more I seem to want my mountains wild;The way the wiry gang-boss liked the logjam. After he'd picked the lock and got it started,He dodged a log that lifted like an armAgainst the sky to break his back for him,Then came in dancing, skipping with his lifeAcross the roar and chaos, and the words We saw him say along the zigzag journeyWere doubtless as the words we heard him sayOn coming nearer: 'Wasn't she an i-dealSon-of-a-bitch? You bet she was an i-deal.'For all her mountains fall a little short,Her people not quite short enough for Art,She's still New Hampshire; a most restful state.Lately in converse with a New York alecAbout the new school of the pseudo-phallic,I found myself in a close corner whereI bad to make an almost funny choice.'Choose you which you will be—a prude, or puke,Mewling and puking in the public arms.''Me for the hills where I don't have to choose.\"'But if you bad to choose, which would you be?' 1 wouldn't be a prude afraid of nature.I know a man who took a double axAnd went alone against a grove of trees;But his heart failing him, he dropped the axAnd ran for shelter quoting Matthew Arnold:''Nature is cruel, man is sick of blood':There s been enough shed without shedding mine.Remember Birnam Wood! The wood's in flux!'He had a special terror of the fluxThat showed itself in dendrophobia.The only decent tree had been to millAnd educated into boards, be said.He knew too well for any earthly useThe line where man leaves off and nature starts.And never overstepped it save in dreams.He stood on the safe side of the line talking—Which is sheer Matthew Arnoldism,The cult of one who owned himself 'a foiledCircuitous wanderer,' and 'took dejectedlyHis seat upon the intellectual throne'—Agreed in 'frowning on these improvisedAltars the woods are full of nowadays,Again as in the days when Ahaz sinnedBy worship under green trees in the open.Scarcely a mile but that I come on one,A black-checked stone and stick of rain-washed charcoal.Even to say the groves were God's first templesComes too near to Ahaz' sin for safety.Nothing not built with hands of course is sacred.But here is not a question of what's sacred;Rather of what to face or run away from.I'd hate to be a runaway from nature.And neither would I choose to be a pukeWho cares not what be does in company,And when he can't do anything, falls backOn words, and tries his worst to make words speakLouder than actions, and sometimes achieves it.It seems a narrow choice the age insists on8ow about being a good Greek, for instance)That course, they tell me, isn't offered this year.'Come, but this isn't choosing—puke or prude?'Well, if I have to choose one or the other,I choose to be a plain New Hampshire farmerWith an income in cash of, say, a thousand(From, say, a publisher in New York City). It's restful to arrive at a decision,And restful just to think about New Hampshire.At present I am living in Vermont.",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"19": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 19,
"poem.id": 19,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:44:06",
"poem.title": "The Kitchen Chimney",
"poem.date": "1/27/2016",
"poem.content": "Builder, in building the little house,In every way you may please yourself;But please please me in the kitchen chimney:Don't build me a chimney upon a shelf.However far you must go for bricks,Whatever they cost a-piece or a pound,But me enough for a full-length chimney,And build the chimney clear from the ground.It's not that I'm greatly afraid of fire,But I never heard of a house that throve(And I know of one that didn't thrive)Where the chimney started above the stove.And I dread the ominous stain of tarThat there always is on the papered walls,And the smell of fire drowned in rainThat there always is when the chimney's false.A shelf's for a clock or vase or picture,But I don't see why it should have to bearA chimney that only would serve to remind meOf castles I used to build in air.",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"20": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 20,
"poem.id": 20,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:44:12",
"poem.title": "The Birthplace",
"poem.date": "5/14/2015",
"poem.content": "Here further up the mountain slopeThan there was every any hope,My father built, enclosed a spring,Strung chains of wall round everything,Subdued the growth of earth to grass,And brought our various lives to pass.A dozen girls and boys we were.The mountain seemed to like the stir,And made of us a little while- With always something in her smile.Today she wouldn't know our name.(No girl's, of course, has stayed the same.)The mountain pushed us off her knees.And now her lap is full of trees.",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"21": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 21,
"poem.id": 21,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:44:15",
"poem.title": "Directive",
"poem.date": "6/26/2015",
"poem.content": "Back out of all this now too much for us,Back in a time made simple by the lossOf detail, burned, dissolved, and broken offLike graveyard marble sculpture in the weather,There is a house that is no more a houseUpon a farm that is no more a farmAnd in a town that is no more a town.The road there, if you'll let a guide direct youWho only has at heart your getting lost,May seem as if it should have been a quarry -Great monolithic knees the former townLong since gave up pretense of keeping covered.And there's a story in a book about it:Besides the wear of iron wagon wheelsThe ledges show lines ruled southeast-northwest,The chisel work of an enormous GlacierThat braced his feet against the Arctic Pole.You must not mind a certain coolness from himStill said to haunt this side of Panther Mountain.Nor need you mind the serial ordealOf being watched from forty cellar holesAs if by eye pairs out of forty firkins.As for the woods' excitement over youThat sends light rustle rushes to their leaves,Charge that to upstart inexperience.Where were they all not twenty years ago?They think too much of having shaded outA few old pecker-fretted apple trees.Make yourself up a cheering song of howSomeone's road home from work this once was,Who may be just ahead of you on footOr creaking with a buggy load of grain.The height of the adventure is the heightOf country where two village cultures fadedInto each other. Both of them are lost.And if you're lost enough to find yourselfBy now, pull in your ladder road behind youAnd put a sign up CLOSED to all but me.Then make yourself at home. The only fieldNow left's no bigger than a harness gall.First there's the children's house of make-believe,Some shattered dishes underneath a pine,The playthings in the playhouse of the children.Weep for what little things could make them glad.Then for the house that is no more a house,But only a belilaced cellar hole,Now slowly closing like a dent in dough.This was no playhouse but a house in earnest.Your destination and your destiny'sA brook that was the water of the house,Cold as a spring as yet so near its source,Too lofty and original to rage.(We know the valley streams that when arousedWill leave their tatters hung on barb and thorn.)I have kept hidden in the instep archOf an old cedar at the watersideA broken drinking goblet like the GrailUnder a spell so the wrong ones can't find it,So can't get saved, as Saint Mark says they mustn't.(I stole the goblet from the children's playhouse.)Here are your waters and your watering place.Drink and be whole again beyond confusion.",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"22": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 22,
"poem.id": 22,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:44:17",
"poem.title": "Snow",
"poem.date": "2/23/2016",
"poem.content": "The three stood listening to a fresh accessOf wind that caught against the house a moment,Gulped snow, and then blew free again-the ColesDressed, but dishevelled from some hours of sleep,Meserve belittled in the great skin coat he wore.Meserve was first to speak. He pointed backwardOver his shoulder with his pipe-stem, saying,'You can just see it glancing off the roofMaking a great scroll upward toward the sky,Long enough for recording all our names on.-I think I'll just call up my wife and tell herI'm here-so far-and starting on again.I'll call her softly so that if she's wiseAnd gone to sleep, she needn't wake to answer.'Three times he barely stirred the bell, then listened.'Why, Lett, still up? Lett, I'm at Cole's. I'm late.I called you up to say Good-night from hereBefore I went to say Good-morning there.-I thought I would.- I know, but, Lett-I know-I could, but what's the sense? The rest won't beSo bad.- Give me an hour for it.- Ho, ho,Three hours to here! But that was all up hill;The rest is down.- Why no, no, not a wallow:They kept their heads and took their time to itLike darlings, both of them. They're in the barn.-My dear, I'm coming just the same. I didn'tCall you to ask you to invite me home.-'He lingered for some word she wouldn't say,Said it at last himself, 'Good-night,' and then,Getting no answer, closed the telephone.The three stood in the lamplight round the tableWith lowered eyes a moment till he said,'I'll just see how the horses are.''Yes, do,'Both the Coles said together. Mrs. ColeAdded: 'You can judge better after seeing.-I want you here with me, Fred. Leave him here,Brother Meserve. You know to find your wayOut through the shed.''I guess I know my way,I guess I know where I can find my nameCarved in the shed to tell me who I amIf it don't tell me where I am. I usedTo play-''You tend your horses and come back.Fred Cole, you're going to let him!''Well, aren't you?How can you help yourself?''I called him Brother.Why did I call him that?''It's right enough.That's all you ever heard him called round here.He seems to have lost off his Christian name.''Christian enough I should call that myself.He took no notice, did he? Well, at leastI didn't use it out of love of him,The dear knows. I detest the thought of himWith his ten children under ten years old.I hate his wretched little Racker Sect,All's ever I heard of it, which isn't much.But that's not saying-Look, Fred Cole, it's twelve,Isn't it, now? He's been here half an hour.He says he left the village store at nine.Three hours to do four miles-a mile an hourOr not much better. Why, it doesn't seemAs if a man could move that slow and move.Try to think what he did with all that time.And three miles more to go!''Don't let him go.Stick to him, Helen. Make him answer you.That sort of man talks straight on all his lifeFrom the last thing he said himself, stone deafTo anything anyone else may say.I should have thought, though, you could make him hear you.''What is he doing out a night like this?Why can't he stay at home?''He had to preach.''It's no night to be out.''He may be small,He may be good, but one thing's sure, he's tough.''And strong of stale tobacco.''He'll pull through.''You only say so. Not another houseOr shelter to put into from this placeTo theirs. I'm going to call his wife again.''Wait and he may. Let's see what he will do.Let's see if he will think of her again.But then I doubt he's thinking of himselfHe doesn't look on it as anything.''He shan't go-there!''It is a night, my dear.''One thing: he didn't drag God into it.''He don't consider it a case for God.''You think so, do you? You don't know the kind.He's getting up a miracle this minute.Privately-to himself, right now, he's thinkingHe'll make a case of it if he succeeds,But keep still if he fails.''Keep still all over.He'll be dead-dead and buried.''Such a trouble!Not but I've every reason not to careWhat happens to him if it only takesSome of the sanctimonious conceitOut of one of those pious scalawags.''Nonsense to that! You want to see him safe.''You like the runt.''Don't you a little?''Well,I don't like what he's doing, which is whatYou like, and like him for.''Oh, yes you do.You like your fun as well as anyone;Only you women have to put these airs onTo impress men. You've got us so ashamedOf being men we can't look at a good fightBetween two boys and not feel bound to stop it.Let the man freeze an ear or two, I say.-He's here. I leave him all to you. Go inAnd save his life.- All right, come in, Meserve.Sit down, sit down. How did you find the horses?''Fine, fine.''And ready for some more? My wife hereSays it won't do. You've got to give it up.''Won't you to please me? Please! If I say please?Mr. Meserve, I'll leave it to your wife.What did your wife say on the telephone?'Meserve seemed to heed nothing but the lampOr something not far from it on the table.By straightening out and lifting a forefinger,He pointed with his hand from where it layLike a white crumpled spider on his knee:'That leaf there in your open book! It movedJust then, I thought. It's stood erect like that,There on the table, ever since I came,Trying to turn itself backward or forward,I've had my eye on it to make out which;If forward, then it's with a friend's impatience-You see I know-to get you on to thingsIt wants to see how you will take, if backwardIt's from regret for something you have passedAnd failed to see the good of. Never mind,Things must expect to come in front of usA many times-I don't say just how many-That varies with the things-before we see them.One of the lies would make it out that nothingEver presents itself before us twice.Where would we be at last if that were so?Our very life depends on everything'sRecurring till we answer from within.The thousandth time may prove the charm.- That leaf!It can't turn either way. It needs the wind's help.But the wind didn't move it if it moved.It moved itself. The wind's at naught in here.It couldn't stir so sensitively poisedA thing as that. It couldn't reach the lampTo get a puff of black smoke from the flame,Or blow a rumple in the collie's coat.You make a little foursquare block of air,Quiet and light and warm, in spite of allThe illimitable dark and cold and storm,And by so doing give these three, lamp, dog,And book-leaf, that keep near you, their repose;Though for all anyone can tell, reposeMay be the thing you haven't, yet you give it.So false it is that what we haven't we can't give;So false, that what we always say is true.I'll have to turn the leaf if no one else will.It won't lie down. Then let it stand. Who cares?''I shouldn't want to hurry you, Meserve,But if you're going- Say you'll stay, you know?But let me raise this curtain on a scene,And show you how it's piling up against you.You see the snow-white through the white of frost?Ask Helen how far up the sash it's climbedSince last we read the gage.''It looks as ifSome pallid thing had squashed its features flatAnd its eyes shut with overeagernessTo see what people found so interestingIn one another, and had gone to sleepOf its own stupid lack of understanding,Or broken its white neck of mushroom stuffShort off, and died against the window-pane.''Brother Meserve, take care, you'll scare yourselfMore than you will us with such nightmare talk.It's you it matters to, because it's youWho have to go out into it alone.''Let him talk, Helen, and perhaps he'll stay.''Before you drop the curtain-I'm reminded:You recollect the boy who came out hereTo breathe the air one winter-had a roomDown at the Averys'? Well, one sunny morningAfter a downy storm, he passed our placeAnd found me banking up the house with snow.And I was burrowing in deep for warmth,Piling it well above the window-sills.The snow against the window caught his eye.'Hey, that's a pretty thought'-those were his words.'So you can think it's six feet deep outside,While you sit warm and read up balanced rations.You can't get too much winter in the winter.'Those were his words. And he went home and allBut banked the daylight out of Avery's windows.Now you and I would go to no such length.At the same time you can't deny it makesIt not a mite worse, sitting here, we three,Playing our fancy, to have the snowline runSo high across the pane outside. There whereThere is a sort of tunnel in the frostMore like a tunnel than a hole-way downAt the far end of it you see a stirAnd quiver like the frayed edge of the driftBlown in the wind. I like that-I like that.Well, now I leave you, people.''Come, Meserve,We thought you were deciding not to go-The ways you found to say the praise of comfortAnd being where you are. You want to stay.''I'll own it's cold for such a fall of snow.This house is frozen brittle, all exceptThis room you sit in. If you think the windSounds further off, it's not because it's dying;You're further under in the snow-that's all-And feel it less. Hear the soft bombs of dustIt bursts against us at the chimney mouth,And at the eaves. I like it from insideMore than I shall out in it. But the horsesAre rested and it's time to say good-night,And let you get to bed again. Good-night,Sorry I had to break in on your sleep.''Lucky for you you did. Lucky for youYou had us for a half-way stationTo stop at. If you were the kind of manPaid heed to women, you'd take my adviceAnd for your family's sake stay where you are.But what good is my saying it over and over?You've done more than you had a right to thinkYou could do-now. You know the risk you takeIn going on.''Our snow-storms as a ruleAren't looked on as man-killers, and althoughI'd rather be the beast that sleeps the sleepUnder it all, his door sealed up and lost,Than the man fighting it to keep above it,Yet think of the small birds at roost and notIn nests. Shall I be counted less than they are?Their bulk in water would be frozen rockIn no time out to-night. And yet to-morrowThey will come budding boughs from tree to treeFlirting their wings and saying Chickadee,As if not knowing what you meant by the word storm.''But why when no one wants you to go on?Your wife-she doesn't want you to. We don't,And you yourself don't want to. Who else is there?''Save us from being cornered by a woman.Well, there's'-She told Fred afterward that inThe pause right there, she thought the dreaded wordWas coming, 'God.' But no, he only said'Well, there's-the storm. That says I must go on.That wants me as a war might if it came.Ask any man.'He threw her that as somethingTo last her till he got outside the door.He had Cole with him to the barn to see him off.When Cole returned he found his wife still standingBeside the table near the open book,Not reading it.'Well, what kind of a manDo you call that?' she said.'He had the giftOf words, or is it tongues, I ought to say?''Was ever such a man for seeing likeness?''Or disregarding people's civil questions-What? We've found out in one hour more about himThan we had seeing him pass by in the roadA thousand times. If that's the way he preaches!You didn't think you'd keep him after all.Oh, I'm not blaming you. He didn't leave youMuch say in the matter, and I'm just as gladWe're not in for a night of him. No sleepIf he had stayed. The least thing set him going.It's quiet as an empty church without him.''But how much better off are we as it is?We'll have to sit here till we know he's safe.''Yes, I suppose you'll want to, but I shouldn't.He knows what he can do, or he wouldn't try.Get into bed I say, and get some rest.He won't come back, and if he telephones,It won't be for an hour or two.''Well then- We can't be any help by sitting hereAnd living his fight through with him, I suppose.'- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Cole had been telephoning in the dark.Mrs. Cole's voice came from an inner room:'Did she call you or you call her?''She me.You'd better dress: you won't go back to bed.We must have been asleep: it's three and after.''Had she been ringing long? I'll get my wrapper.I want to speak to her.''All she said was,He hadn't come and had he really started.''She knew he had, poor thing, two hours ago.''He had the shovel. He'll have made a fight.''Why did I ever let him leave this house!''Don't begin that. You did the best you couldTo keep him-though perhaps you didn't quiteConceal a wish to see him show the spunkTo disobey you. Much his wife'll thank you.''Fred, after all I said! You shan't make outThat it was any way but what it was.Did she let on by any word she saidShe didn't thank me?''When I told her 'Gone,''Well then,' she said, and 'Well then'-like a threat.And then her voice came scraping slow: 'Oh, you,Why did you let him go'?''Asked why we let him?You let me there. I'll ask her why she let him.She didn't dare to speak when he was here.Their number's-twenty-one? The thing won't work.Someone's receiver's down. The handle stumbles.The stubborn thing, the way it jars your arm!It's theirs. She's dropped it from her hand and gone.''Try speaking. Say 'Hello'!''Hello. Hello.''What do you hear?''I hear an empty room-You know-it sounds that way. And yes, I hear-I think I hear a clock-and windows rattling.No step though. If she's there she's sitting down.''Shout, she may hear you.''Shouting is no good.''Keep speaking then.''Hello. Hello. Hello.You don't suppose-? She wouldn't go out doors?''I'm half afraid that's just what she might do.''And leave the children?''Wait and call again.You can't hear whether she has left the doorWide open and the wind's blown out the lampAnd the fire's died and the room's dark and cold?''One of two things, either she's gone to bedOr gone out doors.''In which case both are lost.Do you know what she's like? Have you ever met her?It's strange she doesn't want to speak to us.''Fred, see if you can hear what I hear. Come.''A clock maybe.''Don't you hear something else?''Not talking.''No.''Why, yes, I hear-what is it?''What do you say it is?''A baby's crying!Frantic it sounds, though muffled and far off.''Its mother wouldn't let it cry like that,Not if she's there.''What do you make of it?''There's only one thing possible to make,That is, assuming-that she has gone out.Of course she hasn't though.' They both sat downHelpless. 'There's nothing we can do till morning.''Fred, I shan't let you think of going out.''Hold on.' The double bell began to chirp.They started up. Fred took the telephone.'Hello, Meserve. You're there, then!-And your wife?Good! Why I asked-she didn't seem to answer.He says she went to let him in the barn.-We're glad. Oh, say no more about it, man.Drop in and see us when you're passing.''Well,She has him then, though what she wants him forI don't see.''Possibly not for herself.Maybe she only wants him for the children.''The whole to-do seems to have been for nothing.What spoiled our night was to him just his fun.What did he come in for?-To talk and visit?Thought he'd just call to tell us it was snowing.If he thinks he is going to make our houseA halfway coffee house 'twixt town and nowhere- ''I thought you'd feel you'd been too much concerned.''You think you haven't been concerned yourself.''If you mean he was inconsiderateTo rout us out to think for him at midnightAnd then take our advice no more than nothing,Why, I agree with you. But let's forgive him.We've had a share in one night of his life.What'll you bet he ever calls again?'",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"23": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 23,
"poem.id": 23,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:44:23",
"poem.title": "The Investment",
"poem.date": "3/11/2016",
"poem.content": "Over back where they speak of life as staying('You couldn't call it living, for it ain't'),There was an old, old house renewed with paint,And in it a piano loudly playing.Out in the plowed ground in the cold a digger,Among unearthed potatoes standing still,Was counting winter dinners, one a hill,With half an ear to the piano's vigor.All that piano and new paint back there,Was it some money suddenly come into?Or some extravagance young love had been to?Or old love on an impulse not to care- Not to sink under being man and wife,But get some color and music out of life?",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"24": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 24,
"poem.id": 24,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:44:26",
"poem.title": "Sitting by a Bush in Broad Sunlight",
"poem.date": "3/10/2016",
"poem.content": "When I spread out my hand here today,I catch no more than a rayTo feel of between thumb and fingers;No lasting effect of it lingers.There was one time and only the oneWhen dust really took in the sun;And from that one intake of fireAll creatures still warmly suspire.And if men have watched a long timeAnd never seen sun-smitten slimeAgain come to life and crawl off,We not be too ready to scoff.God once declared he was trueAnd then took the veil and withdrew,And remember how final a hushThen descended of old on the bush.God once spoke to people by name.The sun once imparted its flame.One impulse persists as our breath;The other persists as our faith.",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"25": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 25,
"poem.id": 25,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:44:28",
"poem.title": "A Fountain, a Bottle, a Donkey's Ears, and Some Books",
"poem.date": "3/5/2016",
"poem.content": "Old Davis owned a solid mica mountainIn Dalton that would someday make his fortune.There'd been some Boston people out to see it:And experts said that deep down in the mountainThe mica sheets were big as plate-glass windows.He'd like to take me there and show it to me.'I'll tell you what you show me. You rememberYou said you knew the place where once, on Kinsman,The early Mormons made a settlementAnd built a stone baptismal font outdoors-But Smith, or someone, called them off the mountainTo go West to a worse fight with the desert.You said you'd seen the stone baptismal font.Well, take me there.'Someday I will.''Today.''Huh, that old bathtub, what is that to see?Let's talk about it.''Let's go see the place.''To shut you up I'll tell you what I'll do:I'll find that fountain if it takes all summer,And both of our united strengths, to do it.''You've lost it, then?''Not so but I can find it.No doubt it's grown up some to woods around it.The mountain may have shifted since I saw itIn eighty-five.''As long ago as that?''If I remember rightly, it had sprungA leak and emptied then. And forty yearsCan do a good deal to bad masonry.You won't see any Mormon swimming in it.But you have said it, and we're off to find it.Old as I am, I'm going to let myselfBe dragged by you all over everywhere- ''I thought you were a guide.''I am a guide,And that's why I can't decently refuse you.'We made a day of it out of the world,Ascending to descend to reascend.The old man seriously took his bearings,And spoke his doubts in every open place.We came out on a look-off where we facedA cliff, and on the cliff a bottle painted,Or stained by vegetation from above,A likeness to surprise the thrilly tourist.'Well, if I haven't brought you to the fountain,At least I've brought you to the famous Bottle.''I won't accept the substitute. It's empty.''So's everything.''I want my fountain.''I guess you'd find the fountain just as empty.And anyway this tells me where I am.''Hadn't you long suspected where you were?''You mean miles from that Mormon settlement?Look here, you treat your guide with due respectIf you don't want to spend the night outdoors.I vow we must be near the place from whereThe two converging slides, the avalanches,On Marshall, look like donkey's ears.We may as well see that and save the day.''Don't donkey's ears suggest we shake our own?''For God's sake, aren't you fond of viewing nature?You don't like nature. All you like is books.What signify a donkey's cars and bottle,However natural? Give you your books!Well then, right here is where I show you books.Come straight down off this mountain just as fastAs we can fall and keep a-bouncing on our feet.It's hell for knees unless done hell-for-leather.'Be ready, I thought, for almost anything.We struck a road I didn't recognize,But welcomed for the chance to lave my shoesIn dust once more. We followed this a mile,Perhaps, to where it ended at a houseI didn't know was there. It was the kindTo bring me to for broad-board paneling.I never saw so good a house deserted.'Excuse me if I ask you in a windowThat happens to be broken, Davis said.'The outside doors as yet have held against us.I want to introduce you to the peopleWho used to live here. They were Robinsons.You must have heard of Clara Robinson,The poetess who wrote the book of versesAnd had it published. It was all aboutThe posies on her inner windowsill,And the birds on her outer windowsill,And how she tended both, or had them tended:She never tended anything herself.She was 'shut in' for life. She lived her wholeLife long in bed, and wrote her things in bed.I'll show You how she had her sills extendedTo entertain the birds and hold the flowers.Our business first's up attic with her books.'We trod uncomfortably on crunching glassThrough a house stripped of everythingExcept, it seemed, the poetess's poems.Books, I should say!- if books are what is needed.A whole edition in a packing caseThat, overflowing like a horn of plenty,Or like the poetess's heart of love,Had spilled them near the window, toward the lightWhere driven rain had wet and swollen them.Enough to stock a village library-Unfortunately all of one kind, though.They bad been brought home from some publisherAnd taken thus into the family.Boys and bad hunters had known what to doWith stone and lead to unprotected glass:Shatter it inward on the unswept floors.How had the tender verse escaped their outrage?By being invisible for what it was,Or else by some remoteness that defied themTo find out what to do to hurt a poem.Yet oh! the tempting flatness of a book,To send it sailing out the attic windowTill it caught wind and, opening out its covers,Tried to improve on sailing like a tileBy flying like a bird (silent in flight,But all the burden of its body song),Only to tumble like a stricken bird,And lie in stones and bushes unretrieved.Books were not thrown irreverently about.They simply lay where someone now and then,Having tried one, had dropped it at his feetAnd left it lying where it fell rejected.Here were all those the poetess's lifeHad been too short to sell or give away.'Take one,' Old Davis bade me graciously.'Why not take two or three?''Take all you want.'Good-looking books like that.' He picked one freshIn virgin wrapper from deep in the box,And stroked it with a horny-handed kindness.He read in one and I read in another,Both either looking for or finding something.The attic wasps went missing by like bullets.I was soon satisfied for the time being.All the way home I kept rememberingThe small book in my pocket. It was there.The poetess had sighed, I knew, in heavenAt having eased her heart of one more copy-Legitimately. My demand upon her,Though slight, was a demand. She felt the tug.In time she would be rid of all her books.",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"26": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 26,
"poem.id": 26,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:44:32",
"poem.title": "Misgiving",
"poem.date": "7/11/2015",
"poem.content": "All crying, 'We will go with you, O Wind!'The foliage follow him, leaf and stem;But a sleep oppresses them as they go,And they end by bidding them as they go,And they end by bidding him stay with them.Since ever they flung abroad in springThe leaves had promised themselves this flight,Who now would fain seek sheltering wall,Or thicket, or hollow place for the night.And now they answer his summoning blastWith an ever vaguer and vaguer stir,Or at utmost a little reluctant whirlThat drops them no further than where they were.I only hope that when I am freeAs they are free to go in questOf the knowledge beyond the bounds of lifeIt may not seem better to me to rest.",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"27": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 27,
"poem.id": 27,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:44:38",
"poem.title": "Pea Brush",
"poem.date": "3/11/2016",
"poem.content": "I WALKED down alone Sunday after churchTo the place where John has been cutting treesTo see for myself about the birchHe said I could have to bush my peas.The sun in the new-cut narrow gapWas hot enough for the first of May,And stifling hot with the odor of sapFrom stumps still bleeding their life away.The frogs that were peeping a thousand shrillWherever the ground was low and wet,The minute they heard my step went stillTo watch me and see what I came to get.Birch boughs enough piled everywhere!—All fresh and sound from the recent axe.Time someone came with cart and pairAnd got them off the wild flower's backs.They might be good for garden thingsTo curl a little finger round,The same as you seize cat's-cradle strings,And lift themselves up off the ground.Small good to anything growing wild,They were crooking many a trilliumThat had budded before the boughs were piledAnd since it was coming up had to come.",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"28": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 28,
"poem.id": 28,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:44:43",
"poem.title": "A Winter Eden",
"poem.date": "3/11/2016",
"poem.content": "A winter garden in an alder swamp,Where conies now come out to sun and romp,As near a paradise as it can beAnd not melt snow or start a dormant tree.It lifts existence on a plane of snowOne level higher than the earth below,One level nearer heaven overhead,And last year's berries shining scarlet red.It lifts a gaunt luxuriating beastWhere he can stretch and hold his highest featOn some wild apple tree's young tender bark,What well may prove the year's high girdle mark.So near to paradise all pairing ends:Here loveless birds now flock as winter friends,Content with bud-inspecting. They presumeTo say which buds are leaf and which are bloom.A feather-hammer gives a double knock.This Eden day is done at two o'clock.An hour of winter day might seem too shortTo make it worth life's while to wake and sport.",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"29": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 29,
"poem.id": 29,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:44:48",
"poem.title": "The Flood",
"poem.date": "12/10/2015",
"poem.content": "Blood has been harder to dam back than water.Just when we think we have it impounded safeBehind new barrier walls (and let it chafe!),It breaks away in some new kind of slaughter.We choose to say it is let loose by the devil;But power of blood itself releases blood.It goes by might of being such a floodHeld high at so unnatural a level.It will have outlet, brave and not so brave.weapons of war and implements of peaceAre but the points at which it finds release.And now it is once more the tidal waveThat when it has swept by leaves summits stained.Oh, blood will out. It cannot be contained.",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"30": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 30,
"poem.id": 30,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:44:52",
"poem.title": "Atmosphere",
"poem.date": "3/11/2016",
"poem.content": "Inscription for a Garden WallWinds blow the open grassy places bleak;But where this old wall burns a sunny cheek,They eddy over it too toppling weakTo blow the earth or anything self-clear;Moisture and color and odor thicken here.The hours of daylight gather atmosphere.",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"31": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 31,
"poem.id": 31,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:44:57",
"poem.title": "Sand Dunes",
"poem.date": "3/10/2016",
"poem.content": "Sea waves are green and wet,But up from where they die,Rise others vaster yet,And those are brown and dry.They are the sea made landTo come at the fisher town,And bury in solid sandThe men she could not drown.She may know cove and cape,But she does not know mankindIf by any change of shape,She hopes to cut off mind.Men left her a ship to sink:They can leave her a hut as well;And be but more free to thinkFor the one more cast-off shell.",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"32": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 32,
"poem.id": 32,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:45:02",
"poem.title": "In The Home Stretch",
"poem.date": "1/9/2015",
"poem.content": "SHE stood against the kitchen sink, and lookedOver the sink out through a dusty windowAt weeds the water from the sink made tall.She wore her cape; her hat was in her hand.Behind her was confusion in the room,Of chairs turned upside down to sit like peopleIn other chairs, and something, come to look,For every room a house has—parlor, bed-room,And dining-room—thrown pell-mell in the kitchen.And now and then a smudged, infernal faceLooked in a door behind her and addressedHer back. She always answered without turning.\"Where will I put this walnut bureau, lady?\"\"Put it on top of something that's on topOf something else,\" she laughed. \"Oh, put it whereYou can to-night, and go. It's almost dark;You must be getting started back to town.\"Another blackened face thrust in and lookedAnd smiled, and when she did not turn, spoke gently,\"What are you seeing out the window, lady?\"\"Never was I beladied so before.Would evidence of having been called ladyMore than so many times make me a ladyIn common law, I wonder.\"\"But I ask,What are you seeing out the window, lady?\"\"What I'll be seeing more of in the yearsTo come as here I stand and go the roundOf many plates with towels many times.\"\"And what is that? You only put me off.\"\"Rank weeds that love the water from the dish-panMore than some women like the dish-pan, Joe;A little stretch of mowing-field for you;Not much of that until I come to woodsThat end all. And it's scarce enough to callA view.\"\"And yet you think you like it, dear?\"\"That's what you're so concerned to know! You hopeI like it. Bang goes something big awayOff there upstairs. The very tread of menAs great as those is shattering to the frameOf such a little house. Once left alone,You and I, dear, will go with softer stepsUp and down stairs and through the rooms, and noneBut sudden winds that snatch them from our handsWill ever slam the doors.\"\"I think you seeMore than you like to own to out that window.\"\"No; for besides the things I tell you of,I only see the years. They come and goIn alternation with the weeds, the field,The wood.\"\"What kind of years?\"\"Why, latter years—Different from early years.\"\"I see them, too.You didn't count them?\"\"No, the further offSo ran together that I didn't try to.It can scarce be that they would be in numberWe'd care to know, for we are not young now.And bang goes something else away off there.It sounds as if it were the men went down,And every crash meant one less to returnTo lighted city streets we, too, have known,But now are giving up for country darkness.\"\"Come from that window where you see too much for me,And take a livelier view of things from here.They're going. Watch this husky swarming upOver the wheel into the sky-high seat,Lighting his pipe now, squinting down his noseAt the flame burning downward as he sucks it.\"\"See how it makes his nose-side bright, a proofHow dark it's getting. Can you tell what timeIt is by that? Or by the moon? The new moon!What shoulder did I see her over? Neither.A wire she is of silver, as new as weTo everything. Her light won't last us long.It's something, though, to know we're going to have herNight after night and stronger every nightTo see us through our first two weeks. But, Joe,The stove! Before they go! Knock on the window;Ask them to help you get it on its feet.We stand here dreaming. Hurry! Call them back!\"\"They're not gone yet.\"\"We've got to have the stove,Whatever else we want for. And a light.Have we a piece of candle if the lampAnd oil are buried out of reach?\"AgainThe house was full of tramping, and the dark,Door-filling men burst in and seized the stove.A cannon-mouth-like hole was in the wall,To which they set it true by eye; and thenCame up the jointed stovepipe in their hands,So much too light and airy for their strengthIt almost seemed to come ballooning up,Slipping from clumsy clutches toward the ceiling.\"A fit!\" said one, and banged a stovepipe shoulder.\"It's good luck when you move in to beginWith good luck with your stovepipe. Never mind,It's not so bad in the country, settled down,When people 're getting on in life, You'll like it.\"Joe said: \"You big boys ought to find a farm,And make good farmers, and leave other fellowsThe city work to do. There's not enoughFor everybody as it is in there.\"\"God!\" one said wildly, and, when no one spoke:\"Say that to Jimmy here. He needs a farm.\"But Jimmy only made his jaw recedeFool-like, and rolled his eyes as if to sayHe saw himself a farmer. Then there was a French boyWho said with seriousness that made them laugh,\"Ma friend, you ain't know what it is you're ask.\"He doffed his cap and held it with both handsAcross his chest to make as 'twere a bow:\"We're giving you our chances on de farm.\"And then they all turned to with deafening bootsAnd put each other bodily out of the house.\"Goodby to them! We puzzle them. They think—I don't know what they think we see in whatThey leave us to: that pasture slope that seemsThe back some farm presents us; and your woodsTo northward from your window at the sink,Waiting to steal a step on us wheneverWe drop our eyes or turn to other things,As in the game ‘Ten-step' the children play.\"\"Good boys they seemed, and let them love the city.All they could say was ‘God!' when you proposedTheir coming out and making useful farmers.\"\"Did they make something lonesome go through you?It would take more than them to sicken you—Us of our bargain. But they left us soAs to our fate, like fools past reasoning with.They almost shook me.\"\"It's all so muchWhat we have always wanted, I confessIt's seeming bad for a moment makes it seemEven worse still, and so on down, down, down.It's nothing; it's their leaving us at dusk.I never bore it well when people went.The first night after guests have gone, the houseSeems haunted or exposed. I always takeA personal interest in the locking upAt bedtime; but the strangeness soon wears off.\"He fetched a dingy lantern from behindA door. \"There's that we didn't lose! And these!\"—Some matches he unpocketed. \"For food—The meals we've had no one can take from us.I wish that everything on earth were justAs certain as the meals we've had. I wishThe meals we haven't had were, anyway.What have you you know where to lay your hands on?\"\"The bread we bought in passing at the store.There's butter somewhere, too.\"\"Let's rend the bread.I'll light the fire for company for you;You'll not have any other companyTill Ed begins to get out on a SundayTo look us over and give us his ideaOf what wants pruning, shingling, breaking up.He'll know what he would do if he were we,And all at once. He'll plan for us and planTo help us, but he'll take it out in planning.Well, you can set the table with the loaf.Let's see you find your loaf. I'll light the fire.I like chairs occupying other chairsNot offering a lady—\"\"There again, Joe!You're tired.\"\"I'm drunk-nonsensical tired out;Don't mind a word I say. It's a day's workTo empty one house of all household goodsAnd fill another with 'em fifteen miles away,Although you do no more than dump them down.\"\"Dumped down in paradise we are and happy.\"\"It's all so much what I have always wanted,I can't believe it's what you wanted, too.\"\"Shouldn't you like to know?\"\"I'd like to knowIf it is what you wanted, then how muchYou wanted it for me.\"\"A troubled conscience!You don't want me to tell if I don't know.\"\"I don't want to find out what can't be known.But who first said the word to come?\"\"My dear,It's who first thought the thought. You're searching, Joe,For things that don't exist; I mean beginnings.Ends and beginnings—there are no such things.There are only middles.\"\"What is this?\"\"This life?Our sitting here by lantern-light togetherAmid the wreckage of a former home?You won't deny the lantern isn't new.The stove is not, and you are not to me,Nor I to you.\"\"Perhaps you never were?\"\"It would take me forever to reciteAll that's not new in where we find ourselves.New is a word for fools in towns who thinkStyle upon style in dress and thought at lastMust get somewhere. I've heard you say as much.No, this is no beginning.\"\"Then an end?\"\"End is a gloomy word.\"\"Is it too lateTo drag you out for just a good-night callOn the old peach trees on the knoll to gropeBy starlight in the grass for a last peachThe neighbors may not have taken as their rightWhen the house wasn't lived in? I've been looking:I doubt if they have left us many grapes.Before we set ourselves to right the house,The first thing in the morning, out we goTo go the round of apple, cherry, peach,Pine, alder, pasture, mowing, well, and brook.All of a farm it is.\"\"I know this much:I'm going to put you in your bed, if firstI have to make you build it. Come, the light.\"When there was no more lantern in the kitchen,The fire got out through crannies in the stoveAnd danced in yellow wrigglers on the ceiling,As much at home as if they'd always danced there.",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"33": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 33,
"poem.id": 33,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:45:07",
"poem.title": "Dust in the Eyes",
"poem.date": "3/11/2016",
"poem.content": "If, as they say, some dust thrown in my eyesWill keep my talk from getting overwise,I'm not the one for putting off the proof.Let it be overwhelming, off a roofAnd round a corner, blizzard snow for dust,And blind me to a standstill if it must.",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"34": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 34,
"poem.id": 34,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:45:13",
"poem.title": "A Passing Glimpse",
"poem.date": "3/10/2016",
"poem.content": "To Ridgely TorrenceOn Last Looking into His 'Hesperides'I often see flowers from a passing carThat are gone before I can tell what they are.I want to get out of the train and go backTo see what they were beside the track.I name all the flowers I am sure they weren't;Not fireweed loving where woods have burnt- Not bluebells gracing a tunnel mouth- Not lupine living on sand and drouth.Was something brushed across my mindThat no one on earth will ever find?Heaven gives it glimpses only to thoseNot in position to look too close.",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"35": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 35,
"poem.id": 35,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:45:16",
"poem.title": "The Most Of It",
"poem.date": "12/17/2014",
"poem.content": "He thought he kept the universe alone;For all the voice in answer he could wakeWas but the mocking echo of his ownFrom some tree-hidden cliff across the lake.Some morning from the boulder-broken beachHe would cry out on life, that what it wantsIs not its own love back in copy speech,But counter-love, original response.And nothing ever came of what he criedUnless it was the embodiment that crashedIn the cliff's talus on the other side,And then in the far distant water splashed,But after a time allowed for it to swim,Instead of proving human when it nearedAnd someone else additional to him,As a great buck it powerfully appeared,Pushing the crumpled water up ahead,And landed pouring like a waterfall,And stumbled through the rocks with horny tread,And forced the underbrush—and that was all.",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"36": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 36,
"poem.id": 36,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:45:21",
"poem.title": "A Hillside Thaw",
"poem.date": "3/11/2016",
"poem.content": "To think to know the country and now knowThe hillside on the day the sun lets goTen million silver lizards out of snow!As often as I've seen it done beforeI can't pretend to tell the way it's done.It looks as if some magic of the sunLifted the rug that bred them on the floorAnd the light breaking on them made them run.But if I though to stop the wet stampede,And caught one silver lizard by the tail,And put my foot on one without avail,And threw myself wet-elbowed and wet-kneedIn front of twenty others' wriggling speed,- In the confusion of them all aglitter,And birds that joined in the excited funBy doubling and redoubling song and twitter,I have no doubt I'd end by holding none.It takes the moon for this. The sun's a wizardBy all I tell; but so's the moon a witch.From the high west she makes a gentle castAnd suddenly, without a jerk or twitch,She has her speel on every single lizard.I fancied when I looked at six o'clockThe swarm still ran and scuttled just as fast.The moon was waiting for her chill effect.I looked at nine: the swarm was turned to rockIn every lifelike posture of the swarm,Transfixed on mountain slopes almost erect.Across each other and side by side they lay.The spell that so could hold them as they wereWas wrought through trees without a breath of stormTo make a leaf, if there had been one, stir.One lizard at the end of every ray.The thought of my attempting such a stray!",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"37": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 37,
"poem.id": 37,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:45:26",
"poem.title": "Place For A Third",
"poem.date": "2/2/2015",
"poem.content": "Nothing to say to all those marriages! She had made three herself to three of his. The score was even for them, three to three. But come to die she found she cared so much: She thought of children in a burial row; Three children in a burial row were sad. One man's three women in a burial row Somehow made her impatient with the man. And so she said to Laban, \"You have done A good deal right; don't do the last thing wrong. Don't make me lie with those two other women.\" Laban said, No, he would not make her lie With anyone but that she had a mind to, If that was how she felt, of course, he said. She went her way. But Laban having caught This glimpse of lingering person in Eliza, And anxious to make all he could of it With something he remembered in himself, Tried to think how he could exceed his promise, And give good measure to the dead, though thankless. If that was how she felt, he kept repeating. His first thought under pressure was a grave In a new boughten grave plot by herself, Under he didn't care how great a stone: He'd sell a yoke of steers to pay for it. And weren't there special cemetery flowers, That, once grief sets to growing, grief may rest; The flowers will go on with grief awhile, And no one seem neglecting or neglected? A prudent grief will not despise such aids. He thought of evergreen and everlasting. And then he had a thought worth many of these. Somewhere must be the grave of the young boy Who married her for playmate more than helpmate, And sometimes laughed at what it was between them. How would she like to sleep her last with him? Where was his grave? Did Laban know his name? He found the grave a town or two away, The headstone cut with John, Beloved Husband, Beside it room reserved; the say a sister's; A never-married sister's of that husband, Whether Eliza would be welcome there. The dead was bound to silence: ask the sister. So Laban saw the sister, and, saying nothing Of where Eliza wanted not to lie, And who had thought to lay her with her first love, Begged simply for the grave. The sister's face Fell all in wrinkles of responsibility. She wanted to do right. She'd have to think. Laban was old and poor, yet seemed to care; And she was old and poor—but she cared, too. They sat. She cast one dull, old look at him, Then turned him out to go on other errands She said he might attend to in the village, While she made up her mind how much she cared— And how much Laban cared—and why he cared, (She made shrewd eyes to see where he came in.) She'd looked Eliza up her second time, A widow at her second husband's grave, And offered her a home to rest awhile Before she went the poor man's widow's way, Housekeeping for the next man out of wedlock. She and Eliza had been friends through all. Who was she to judge marriage in a world Whose Bible's so confused up in marriage counsel? The sister had not come across this Laban; A decent product of life's ironing-out; She must not keep him waiting. Time would press Between the death day and the funeral day. So when she saw him coming in the street She hurried her decision to be ready To meet him with his answer at the door. Laban had known about what it would be From the way she had set her poor old mouth, To do, as she had put it, what was right. She gave it through the screen door closed between them: \"No, not with John. There wouldn't be no sense. Eliza's had too many other men.\" Laban was forced to fall back on his plan To buy Eliza a plot to lie alone in: Which gives him for himself a choice of lots When his time comes to die and settle down.",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"38": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 38,
"poem.id": 38,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:45:31",
"poem.title": "Paul's Wife",
"poem.date": "2/3/2015",
"poem.content": "To drive Paul out of any lumber campAll that was needed was to say to him,'How is the wife, Paul?'- and he'd disappear.Some said it was because be bad no wife,And hated to be twitted on the subject;Others because he'd come within a dayOr so of having one, and then been Jilted;Others because he'd had one once, a good one,Who'd run away with someone else and left him;And others still because he had one nowHe only had to be reminded of- He was all duty to her in a minute:He had to run right off to look her up,As if to say, 'That's so, how is my wife?I hope she isn't getting into mischief.'No one was anxious to get rid of Paul.He'd been the hero of the mountain campsEver since, just to show them, he bad slippedThe bark of a whole tamarack off wholeAs clean as boys do off a willow twigTo make a willow whistle on a SundayApril by subsiding meadow brooks.They seemed to ask him just to see him go,'How is the wife, Paul?' and he always went.He never stopped to murder anyoneWho asked the question. He just disappeared- Nobody knew in what direction,Although it wasn't usually longBefore they beard of him in some new camp,The same Paul at the same old feats of logging.The question everywhere was why should PaulObject to being asked a civil question- A man you could say almost anything toShort of a fighting word. You have the answers.And there was one more not so fair to Paul:That Paul had married a wife not his equal.Paul was ashamed of her. To match a heroShe would have had to be a heroine;Instead of which she was some half-breed squaw.But if the story Murphy told was true,She wasn't anything to be ashamed of.You know Paul could do wonders. Everyone'sHeard how he thrashed the horses on a loadThat wouldn't budge, until they simply stretchedTheir rawhide harness from the load to camp.Paul told the boss the load would be all right,'The sun will bring your load in'- and it did- By shrinking the rawhide to natural length.That's what is called a stretcher. But I guessThe one about his jumping so's to landWith both his feet at once against the ceiling,And then land safely right side up again,Back on the floor, is fact or pretty near fact.Well, this is such a yarn. Paul sawed his wifeOut of a white-pine log. Murphy was thereAnd, as you might say, saw the lady born.Paul worked at anything in lumbering.He'd been bard at it taking boards awayFor- I forget- the last ambitious sawyerTo want to find out if he couldn't pileThe lumber on Paul till Paul begged for mercy.They'd sliced the first slab off a big butt log,And the sawyer had slammed the carriage backTo slam end-on again against the saw teeth.To judge them by the way they caught themselvesWhen they saw what had happened to the log,They must have had a guilty expectationSomething was going to go with their slambanging.Something bad left a broad black streak of greaseOn the new wood the whole length of the logExcept, perhaps, a foot at either end.But when Paul put his finger in the grease,It wasn't grease at all, but a long slot.The log was hollow. They were sawing pine.'First time I ever saw a hollow pine.That comes of having Paul around the place.Take it to bell for me,' the sawyer said.Everyone had to have a look at itAnd tell Paul what he ought to do about it.(They treated it as his.) 'You take a jackknife,And spread the opening, and you've got a dugoutAll dug to go a-fishing in.' To PaulThe hollow looked too sound and clean and emptyEver to have housed birds or beasts or bees.There was no entrance for them to get in by.It looked to him like some new kind of hollowHe thought he'd better take his jackknife to.So after work that evening be came backAnd let enough light into it by cuttingTo see if it was empty. He made out in thereA slender length of pith, or was it pith?It might have been the skin a snake had castAnd left stood up on end inside the treeThe hundred years the tree must have been growing.More cutting and he bad this in both hands,And looking from it to the pond nearby,Paul wondered how it would respond to water.Not a breeze stirred, but just the breath of airHe made in walking slowly to the beachBlew it once off his hands and almost broke it.He laid it at the edge, where it could drink.At the first drink it rustled and grew limp.At the next drink it grew invisible.Paul dragged the shallows for it with his fingers,And thought it must have melted. It was gone.And then beyond the open water, dim with midges,Where the log drive lay pressed against the boom,It slowly rose a person, rose a girl,Her wet hair heavy on her like a helmet,Who, leaning on a log, looked back at Paul.And that made Paul in turn look backTo see if it was anyone behind himThat she was looking at instead of him.(Murphy had been there watching all the time,But from a shed where neither of them could see him.)There was a moment of suspense in birthWhen the girl seemed too waterlogged to live,Before she caught her first breath with a gaspAnd laughed. Then she climbed slowly to her feet,And walked off, talking to herself or Paul,Across the logs like backs of alligators,Paul taking after her around the pond.Next evening Murphy and some other fellowsGot drunk, and tracked the pair up Catamount,From the bare top of which there is a viewTO other hills across a kettle valley.And there, well after dark, let Murphy tell it,They saw Paul and his creature keeping house.It was the only glimpse that anyoneHas had of Paul and her since Murphy saw themFalling in love across the twilight millpond.More than a mile across the wildernessThey sat together halfway up a cliffIn a small niche let into it, the girlBrightly, as if a star played on the place,Paul darkly, like her shadow. All the lightWas from the girl herself, though, not from a star,As was apparent from what happened next.All those great ruffians put their throats together,And let out a loud yell, and threw a bottle,As a brute tribute of respect to beauty.Of course the bottle fell short by a mile,But the shout reached the girl and put her light out.She went out like a firefly, and that was all.So there were witnesses that Paul was marriedAnd not to anyone to be ashamed ofEveryone had been wrong in judging Paul.Murphy told me Paul put on all those airsAbout his wife to keep her to himself.Paul was what's called a terrible possessor.Owning a wife with him meant owning her.She wasn't anybody else's business,Either to praise her or much as name her,And he'd thank people not to think of her.Murphy's idea was that a man like PaulWouldn't be spoken to about a wifeIn any way the world knew how to speak.",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"39": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 39,
"poem.id": 39,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:45:37",
"poem.title": "The Door In The Dark",
"poem.date": "1/27/2015",
"poem.content": "In going from room to room in the dark,I reached out blindly to save my face,But neglected, however lightly, to laceMy fingers and close my arms in an arc.A slim door got in past my guard,And hit me a blow in the head so hardI had my native simile jarred.So people and things don't pair any moreWith what they used to pair with before.",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"40": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 40,
"poem.id": 40,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:45:41",
"poem.title": "Maple",
"poem.date": "6/24/2015",
"poem.content": "Her teacher's certainty it must be MabelMade Maple first take notice of her name.She asked her father and he told her, 'Maple—Maple is right.''But teacher told the schoolThere's no such name.''Teachers don't know as muchAs fathers about children, you tell teacher.You tell her that it's M-A-P-L-E.You ask her if she knows a maple tree.Well, you were named after a maple tree.Your mother named you. You and she just sawEach other in passing in the room upstairs,One coming this way into life, and oneGoing the other out of life—you know?So you can't have much recollection of her.She had been having a long look at you.She put her finger in your cheek so hardIt must have made your dimple there, and said,'Maple.' I said it too: 'Yes, for her name.'She nodded. So we're sure there's no mistake.I don't know what she wanted it to mean,But it seems like some word she left to bid youBe a good girl—be like a maple tree.How like a maple tree's for us to guess.Or for a little girl to guess sometime.Not now—at least I shouldn't try too hard now.By and by I will tell you all I knowAbout the different trees, and something, too,About your mother that perhaps may help.'Dangerous self-arousing words to sow.Luckily all she wanted of her name thenWas to rebuke her teacher with it next day,And give the teacher a scare as from her father.Anything further had been wasted on her,Or so he tried to think to avoid blame.She would forget it. She all but forgot it.What he sowed with her slept so long a sleep,And came so near death in the dark of years,That when it woke and came to life againThe flower was different from the parent seed.It carne back vaguely at the glass one day,As she stood saying her name over aloud,Striking it gently across her lowered eyesTo make it go well with the way she looked.What was it about her name? Its strangeness layIn having too much meaning. Other names,As Lesley, Carol, Irma, Marjorie,Signified nothing. Rose could have a meaning,But hadn't as it went. (She knew a Rose.)This difference from other names it wasMade people notice it—and notice her.(They either noticed it, or got it wrong.)Her problem was to find out what it askedIn dress or manner of the girl who bore it.If she could form some notion of her mother—What she bad thought was lovely, and what good.This was her mother's childhood home;The house one story high in front, three storiesOn the end it presented to the road.(The arrangement made a pleasant sunny cellar.)Her mother's bedroom was her father's still,Where she could watch her mother's picture fading.Once she found for a bookmark in the BibleA maple leaf she thought must have been laidIn wait for her there. She read every wordOf the two pages it was pressed between,As if it was her mother speaking to her.But forgot to put the leaf back in closingAnd lost the place never to read again.She was sure, though, there had been nothing in it.So she looked for herself, as everyoneLooks for himself, more or less outwardly.And her self-seeking, fitful though it was,May still have been what led her on to read,And think a little, and get some city schooling.She learned shorthand, whatever shorthand mayHave had to do with it- she sometimes wondered.So, till she found herself in a strange placeFor the name Maple to have brought her to,Taking dictation on a paper padAnd, in the pauses when she raised her eyes,Watching out of a nineteenth story windowAn airship laboring with unshiplike motionAnd a vague all-disturbing roar above the riverBeyond the highest city built with hands.Someone was saying in such natural tonesShe almost wrote the words down on her knee,'Do you know you remind me of a tree- A maple tree?''Because my name is Maple?''Isn't it Mabel? I thought it was Mabel.''No doubt you've heard the office call me Mabel.I have to let them call me what they like.'They were both stirred that he should have divinedWithout the name her personal mystery.It made it seem as if there must be somethingShe must have missed herself. So they were married,And took the fancy home with them to live by.They went on pilgrimage once to her father's(The house one story high in front, three storiesOn the side it presented to the road)To see if there was not some special treeShe might have overlooked. They could find none,Not so much as a single tree for shade,Let alone grove of trees for sugar orchard.She told him of the bookmark maple leafIn the big Bible, and all she rememberedof the place marked with it—'Wave offering,Something about wave offering, it said.''You've never asked your father outright, have you?''I have, and been Put off sometime, I think.'(This was her faded memory of the wayOnce long ago her father had put himself off.)'Because no telling but it may have beenSomething between your father and your motherNot meant for us at all.''Not meant for me?Where would the fairness be in giving meA name to carry for life and never knowThe secret of?''And then it may have beenSomething a father couldn't tell a daughterAs well as could a mother. And againIt may have been their one lapse into fancy'Twould be too bad to make him sorry forBy bringing it up to him when be was too old.Your father feels us round him with our questing,And holds us off unnecessarily,As if he didn't know what little thingMight lead us on to a discovery.It was as personal as be could beAbout the way he saw it was with youTo say your mother, bad she lived, would beAs far again as from being born to bearing.''Just one look more with what you say in mind,And I give up'; which last look came to nothing.But though they now gave up the search forever,They clung to what one had seen in the otherBy inspiration. It proved there was something.They kept their thoughts away from when the maplesStood uniform in buckets, and the steamOf sap and snow rolled off the sugarhouse.When they made her related to the maples,It was the tree the autumn fire ran throughAnd swept of leathern leaves, but left the barkUnscorched, unblackened, even, by any smoke.They always took their holidays in autumn.Once they came on a maple in a glade,Standing alone with smooth arms lifted up,And every leaf of foliage she'd wornLaid scarlet and pale pink about her feet.But its age kept them from considering this one.Twenty-five years ago at Maple's namingIt hardly could have been a two-leaved seedlingThe next cow might have licked up out at pasture.Could it have been another maple like it?They hovered for a moment near discovery,Figurative enough to see the symbol,But lacking faith in anything to meanThe same at different times to different people.Perhaps a filial diffidence partly kept themFrom thinking it could be a thing so bridal.And anyway it came too late for Maple.She used her hands to cover up her eyes.'We would not see the secret if we could now:We are not looking for it any more.'Thus had a name with meaning, given in death,Made a girl's marriage, and ruled in her life.No matter that the meaning was not clear.A name with meaning could bring up a child,Taking the child out of the parents' hands.Better a meaningless name, I should say,As leaving more to nature and happy chance.Name children some names and see what you do.",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14386": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14386,
"poem.id": 14386,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:25:20",
"poem.title": "The Last Word of a Blue Bird",
"poem.date": "3/10/2016",
"poem.content": "As told to a childAs I went out a CrowIn a low voice said, 'Oh,I was looking for you.How do you do?I just came to tell youTo tell Lesley (will you?)That her little BluebirdWanted me to bring wordThat the north wind last nightThat made the stars brightAnd made ice on the troughAlmost made him coughHis tail feathers off.He just had to fly!But he sent her Good-by,And said to be good,And wear her red hood,And look for the skunk tracksIn the snow with an ax-And do everything!And perhaps in the springHe would come back and sing.'",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14387": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14387,
"poem.id": 14387,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:25:25",
"poem.title": "The Onset",
"poem.date": "1/8/2015",
"poem.content": "ALWAYS the same, when on a fated nightAt last the gathered snow lets down as whiteAs may be in dark woods, and with a songIt shall not make again all winter longOf hissing on the yet uncovered ground,I almost stumble looking up and round,As one who overtaken by the endGives up his errand, and lets death descendUpon him where he is, with nothing doneTo evil, no important triumph won,More than if life had never been begun. Yet all the precedent is on my side:I know that winter death has never triedThe earth but it has failed: the snow may heapIn long storms an undrifted four feet deepAs measured against maple, birch and oak,It cannot check the peeper's silver croak;And I shall see the snow all go down hillIn water of a slender April rillThat flashes tail through last year's withered brakeAnd dead weeds, like a disappearing snake.Nothing will be left white but here a birch,And there a clump of houses with a church.",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14388": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14388,
"poem.id": 14388,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:25:28",
"poem.title": "Lodged",
"poem.date": "11/21/2014",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14389": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14389,
"poem.id": 14389,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:25:31",
"poem.title": "A Star In A Stoneboat",
"poem.date": "1/15/2015",
"poem.content": "For Lincoln MacVeaghNever tell me that not one star of allThat slip from heaven at night and softly fallHas been picked up with stones to build a wall.Some laborer found one faded and stone-cold,And saving that its weight suggested goldAnd tugged it from his first too certain hold,He noticed nothing in it to remark.He was not used to handling stars thrown darkAnd lifeless from an interrupted arc.He did not recognize in that smooth coalThe one thing palpable besides the soulTo penetrate the air in which we roll.He did not see how like a flying thingIt brooded ant eggs, and bad one large wing,One not so large for flying in a ring,And a long Bird of Paradise's tail(Though these when not in use to fly and trailIt drew back in its body like a snail):Nor know that be might move it from the spot—The harm was done: from having been star-shotThe very nature of the soil was hotAnd burning to yield flowers instead of grain,Flowers fanned and not put out by all the rainPoured on them by his prayers prayed in vain.He moved it roughly with an iron bar,He loaded an old stoneboat with the starAnd not, as you might think, a flying car,Such as even poets would admit perforceMore practical than Pegasus the horseIf it could put a star back in its course.He dragged it through the plowed ground at a paceBut faintly reminiscent of the raceOf jostling rock in interstellar space.It went for building stone, and I, as thoughCommanded in a dream, forever goTo right the wrong that this should have been so.Yet ask where else it could have gone as well,I do not know—I cannot stop to tell:He might have left it lying where it fell.From following walls I never lift my eye,Except at night to places in the skyWhere showers of charted meteors let fly.Some may know what they seek in school and church,And why they seek it there; for what I searchI must go measuring stone walls, perch on perch;Sure that though not a star of death and birth,So not to be compared, perhaps, in worthTo such resorts of life as Mars and Earth—Though not, I say, a star of death and sin,It yet has poles, and only needs a spinTo show its worldly nature and beginTo chafe and shuffle in my calloused palmAnd run off in strange tangents with my arm,As fish do with the line in first alarm.Such as it is, it promises the prizeOf the one world complete in any sizeThat I am like to compass, fool or wise.",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14391": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14391,
"poem.id": 14391,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:25:33",
"poem.title": "Acceptance",
"poem.date": "3/10/2016",
"poem.content": "When the spent sun throws up its rays on cloudAnd goes down burning into the gulf below,No voice in nature is heard to cry aloudAt what has happened. Birds, at least must knowIt is the change to darkness in the sky.Murmuring something quiet in her breast,One bird begins to close a faded eye;Or overtaken too far from his nest,Hurrying low above the grove, some waifSwoops just in time to his remembered tree.At most he thinks or twitters softly, 'Safe!Now let the night be dark for all of me.Let the night bee too dark for me to seeInto the future. Let what will be, be.'",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14392": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14392,
"poem.id": 14392,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:25:38",
"poem.title": "The Runaway",
"poem.date": "3/10/2016",
"poem.content": "Once when the snow of the year was beginning to fall,We stopped by a mountain pasture to say 'Whose colt?'A little Morgan had one forefoot on the wall,The other curled at his breast. He dipped his headAnd snorted at us. And then he had to bolt.We heard the miniature thunder where he fled,And we saw him, or thought we saw him, dim and grey,Like a shadow against the curtain of falling flakes.'I think the little fellow's afraid of the snow.He isn't winter-broken. It isn't playWith the little fellow at all. He's running away.I doubt if even his mother could tell him, 'Sakes,It's only weather'. He'd think she didn't know !Where is his mother? He can't be out alone.'And now he comes again with a clatter of stoneAnd mounts the wall again with whited eyesAnd all his tail that isn't hair up straight.He shudders his coat as if to throw off flies.'Whoever it is that leaves him out so late,When other creatures have gone to stall and bin,Ought to be told to come and take him in.'",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14393": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14393,
"poem.id": 14393,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:25:44",
"poem.title": "The Freedom Of The Moon",
"poem.date": "2/2/2015",
"poem.content": "I've tried the new moon tilted in the airAbove a hazy tree-and-farmhouse clusterAs you might try a jewel in your hair.I've tried it fine with little breadth of luster,Alone, or in one ornament combiningWith one first-water start almost shining.I put it shining anywhere I please.By walking slowly on some evening later,I've pulled it from a crate of crooked trees,And brought it over glossy water, greater,And dropped it in, and seen the image wallow,The color run, all sorts of wonder follow.",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14394": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14394,
"poem.id": 14394,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:25:50",
"poem.title": "Blue-Butterfly Day",
"poem.date": "12/12/2014",
"poem.content": "It is blue-butterfly day here in spring,And with these sky-flakes down in flurry on flurryThere is more unmixed color on the wingThan flowers will show for days unless they hurry.But these are flowers that fly and all but sing:And now from having ridden out desireThey lie closed over in the wind and clingWhere wheels have freshly sliced the April mire.",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14395": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14395,
"poem.id": 14395,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:25:54",
"poem.title": "A Peck of Gold",
"poem.date": "2/14/2016",
"poem.content": "Dust always blowing about the town,Except when sea-fog laid it down,And I was one of the children toldSome of the blowing dust was gold.All the dust the wind blew highAppeared like god in the sunset sky,But I was one of the children toldSome of the dust was really gold.Such was life in the Golden Gate:Gold dusted all we drank and ate,And I was one of the children told,'We all must eat our peck of gold.'",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14396": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14396,
"poem.id": 14396,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:26:00",
"poem.title": "The Master Speed",
"poem.date": "9/14/2013",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14397": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14397,
"poem.id": 14397,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:26:02",
"poem.title": "The Peaceful Shepherd",
"poem.date": "12/4/2014",
"poem.content": "If heaven were to do again,And on the pasture bars,I leaned to line the figures inBetween the dotted stars,I should be tempted to forget,I fear, the Crown of Rule,The Scales of Trade, the Cross of Faith,As hardly worth renewal.For these have governed in our lives,And see how men have warred.The Cross, the Crown, the Scales may allAs well have been the Sword.",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14398": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14398,
"poem.id": 14398,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:26:06",
"poem.title": "An Encounter",
"poem.date": "3/11/2016",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14399": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14399,
"poem.id": 14399,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:26:09",
"poem.title": "In Equal Sacrifice",
"poem.date": "3/29/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14400": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14400,
"poem.id": 14400,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:26:15",
"poem.title": "A Girl's Garden",
"poem.date": "2/3/2015",
"poem.content": "A neighbor of mine in the village Likes to tell how one springWhen she was a girl on the farm, she did A childlike thing.One day she asked her fatherTo give her a garden plotTo plant and tend and reap herself, And he said, 'Why not?'In casting about for a corner He thought of an idle bitOf walled-off ground where a shop had stood, And he said, 'Just it.'And he said, 'That ought to make you An ideal one-girl farm,And give you a chance to put some strength On your slim-jim arm.'It was not enough of a garden Her father said, to plow;So she had to work it all by hand, But she don't mind now.She wheeled the dung in a wheelbarrow Along a stretch of road;But she always ran away and left Her not-nice load,And hid from anyone passing. And then she begged the seed.She says she thinks she planted one Of all things but weed.A hill each of potatoes, Radishes, lettuce, peas,Tomatoes, beets, beans, pumpkins, corn, And even fruit trees.And yes, she has long mistrustedThat a cider-appleIn bearing there today is hers,Or at least may be.Her crop was a miscellany When all was said and done,A little bit of everything, A great deal of none.Now when she sees in the village How village things go,Just when it seems to come in right, She says, 'I know!'It's as when I was a farmer...' Oh never by way of advice!And she never sins by telling the tale To the same person twice.",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14401": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14401,
"poem.id": 14401,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:26:17",
"poem.title": "The Code—heroics",
"poem.date": "3/29/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14402": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14402,
"poem.id": 14402,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:26:23",
"poem.title": "In A Vale",
"poem.date": "3/29/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14403": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14403,
"poem.id": 14403,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:26:26",
"poem.title": "The Axe-Helve",
"poem.date": "3/29/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14404": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14404,
"poem.id": 14404,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:26:33",
"poem.title": "The Bonfire",
"poem.date": "3/29/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14405": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14405,
"poem.id": 14405,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:26:35",
"poem.title": "Iota Subscript",
"poem.date": "3/30/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14406": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14406,
"poem.id": 14406,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:26:40",
"poem.title": "The Black Cottage",
"poem.date": "3/29/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14407": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14407,
"poem.id": 14407,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:26:46",
"poem.title": "The Hill Wife",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14408": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14408,
"poem.id": 14408,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:26:52",
"poem.title": "The Fear",
"poem.date": "3/29/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14409": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14409,
"poem.id": 14409,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:26:58",
"poem.title": "What Fifty Said..",
"poem.date": "3/29/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14410": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14410,
"poem.id": 14410,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:27:01",
"poem.title": "The Oft-Repeated Dream",
"poem.date": "3/30/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14411": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14411,
"poem.id": 14411,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:27:04",
"poem.title": "Waiting -- Afield At Dusk",
"poem.date": "3/29/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14412": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14412,
"poem.id": 14412,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:27:07",
"poem.title": "Iris By Night",
"poem.date": "3/30/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14413": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14413,
"poem.id": 14413,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:27:13",
"poem.title": "The Objection To Being Stepped On",
"poem.date": "3/29/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14414": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14414,
"poem.id": 14414,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:27:15",
"poem.title": "The Impulse",
"poem.date": "3/29/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14415": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14415,
"poem.id": 14415,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:27:22",
"poem.title": "Plowmen",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14416": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14416,
"poem.id": 14416,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:27:28",
"poem.title": "Unharvested",
"poem.date": "3/8/2011",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14417": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14417,
"poem.id": 14417,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:27:32",
"poem.title": "The Demiurge's Laugh",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14418": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14418,
"poem.id": 14418,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:27:36",
"poem.title": "The Mountain",
"poem.date": "3/29/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14419": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14419,
"poem.id": 14419,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:27:40",
"poem.title": "The Need Of Being Versed In Country Things",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14420": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14420,
"poem.id": 14420,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:27:46",
"poem.title": "Range-Finding",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14421": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14421,
"poem.id": 14421,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:27:47",
"poem.title": "Departmental",
"poem.date": "3/29/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14422": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14422,
"poem.id": 14422,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:27:52",
"poem.title": "Pan With Us",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14423": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14423,
"poem.id": 14423,
"poem.ts": "2018-02-28 20:18:01",
"poem.title": "One Step Backward Taken",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": ""
},
"14424": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14424,
"poem.id": 14424,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:27:59",
"poem.title": "Putting In The Seed",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14425": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14425,
"poem.id": 14425,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:28:05",
"poem.title": "The Line-Gang",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14426": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14426,
"poem.id": 14426,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:28:09",
"poem.title": "The Gum-Gatherer",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14427": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14427,
"poem.id": 14427,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:28:15",
"poem.title": "Spoils Of The Dead",
"poem.date": "3/29/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14428": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14428,
"poem.id": 14428,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:28:17",
"poem.title": "Hannibal",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14429": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14429,
"poem.id": 14429,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:28:23",
"poem.title": "The Exposed Nest",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14430": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14430,
"poem.id": 14430,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:28:26",
"poem.title": "In White",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14431": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14431,
"poem.id": 14431,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:28:28",
"poem.title": "Not To Keep",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14432": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14432,
"poem.id": 14432,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:28:34",
"poem.title": "The Vanishing Red",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14433": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14433,
"poem.id": 14433,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:28:39",
"poem.title": "Meeting And Passing",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14434": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14434,
"poem.id": 14434,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:28:44",
"poem.title": "Quandary",
"poem.date": "4/24/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14435": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14435,
"poem.id": 14435,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:28:49",
"poem.title": "They Were Welcome To Their Belief",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14436": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14436,
"poem.id": 14436,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:28:53",
"poem.title": "Hyla Brook",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14437": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14437,
"poem.id": 14437,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:28:58",
"poem.title": "In Neglect",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14438": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14438,
"poem.id": 14438,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:29:00",
"poem.title": "In A Poem",
"poem.date": "1/20/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14439": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14439,
"poem.id": 14439,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:29:03",
"poem.title": "For Once, Then, Something",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14440": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14440,
"poem.id": 14440,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:29:05",
"poem.title": "The Vantage Point",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14441": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14441,
"poem.id": 14441,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:29:08",
"poem.title": "To E.T.",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14442": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14442,
"poem.id": 14442,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:29:11",
"poem.title": "The Star Splitter",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14443": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14443,
"poem.id": 14443,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:29:15",
"poem.title": "The Oven Bird",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14444": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14444,
"poem.id": 14444,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:29:19",
"poem.title": "In A Disused Graveyard",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14445": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14445,
"poem.id": 14445,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:29:24",
"poem.title": "In Hardwood Groves",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14446": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14446,
"poem.id": 14446,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:29:27",
"poem.title": "The Cow In Apple-Time",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14447": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14447,
"poem.id": 14447,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:29:33",
"poem.title": "Christmas Trees",
"poem.date": "3/29/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14448": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14448,
"poem.id": 14448,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:29:39",
"poem.title": "The Death Of The Hired Man",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14449": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14449,
"poem.id": 14449,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:29:45",
"poem.title": "The Bear",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14450": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14450,
"poem.id": 14450,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:29:51",
"poem.title": "The Trial By Existence",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14451": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14451,
"poem.id": 14451,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:29:58",
"poem.title": "The Flower Boat",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14452": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14452,
"poem.id": 14452,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:30:04",
"poem.title": "Rose Pogonias",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14453": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14453,
"poem.id": 14453,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:30:11",
"poem.title": "Reluctance",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14454": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14454,
"poem.id": 14454,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:30:16",
"poem.title": "To Earthward",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14455": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14455,
"poem.id": 14455,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:30:18",
"poem.title": "Storm Fear",
"poem.date": "3/30/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14456": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14456,
"poem.id": 14456,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:30:23",
"poem.title": "Canis Major",
"poem.date": "3/29/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14457": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14457,
"poem.id": 14457,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:30:29",
"poem.title": "Wind And Window Flower",
"poem.date": "3/29/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14458": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14458,
"poem.id": 14458,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:30:33",
"poem.title": "The Span Of Life",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14459": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14459,
"poem.id": 14459,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:30:38",
"poem.title": "The Lockless Door",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14460": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14460,
"poem.id": 14460,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:30:43",
"poem.title": "The Armful",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14461": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14461,
"poem.id": 14461,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:30:47",
"poem.title": "Love And A Question",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14462": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14462,
"poem.id": 14462,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:30:53",
"poem.title": "To The Thawing Wind",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14463": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14463,
"poem.id": 14463,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:30:59",
"poem.title": "Provide, Provide",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14464": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14464,
"poem.id": 14464,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:31:02",
"poem.title": "The Wood-Pile",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14465": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14465,
"poem.id": 14465,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:31:07",
"poem.title": "Two Look At Two",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "Love and forgetting might have carried them A little further up the mountain side With night so near, but not much further up. They must have halted soon in any case With thoughts of a path back, how rough it was With rock and washout, and unsafe in darkness; When they were halted by a tumbled wall With barbed-wire binding. They stood facing this, Spending what onward impulse they still had In One last look the way they must not go, On up the failing path, where, if a stone Or earthslide moved at night, it moved itself; No footstep moved it. 'This is all,' they sighed, Good-night to woods.' But not so; there was more. A doe from round a spruce stood looking at them Across the wall, as near the wall as they. She saw them in their field, they her in hers. The difficulty of seeing what stood still, Like some up-ended boulder split in two, Was in her clouded eyes; they saw no fear there. She seemed to think that two thus they were safe. Then, as if they were something that, though strange, She could not trouble her mind with too long, She sighed and passed unscared along the wall. 'This, then, is all. What more is there to ask?' But no, not yet. A snort to bid them wait. A buck from round the spruce stood looking at them Across the wall as near the wall as they. This was an antlered buck of lusty nostril, Not the same doe come back into her place. He viewed them quizzically with jerks of head, As if to ask, 'Why don't you make some motion? Or give some sign of life? Because you can't. I doubt if you're as living as you look.\" Thus till he had them almost feeling dared To stretch a proffering hand -- and a spell-breaking. Then he too passed unscared along the wall. Two had seen two, whichever side you spoke from. 'This must be all.' It was all. Still they stood, A great wave from it going over them, As if the earth in one unlooked-for favour Had made them certain earth returned their love.",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14466": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14466,
"poem.id": 14466,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:31:10",
"poem.title": "Blueberries",
"poem.date": "3/29/2010",
"poem.content": "'You ought to have seen what I saw on my way To the village, through Mortenson's pasture to-day: Blueberries as big as the end of your thumb, Real sky-blue, and heavy, and ready to drum In the cavernous pail of the first one to come! And all ripe together, not some of them green And some of them ripe! You ought to have seen! ' 'I don't know what part of the pasture you mean.' 'You know where they cut off the woods—let me see— It was two years ago—or no! —can it be No longer than that? —and the following fall The fire ran and burned it all up but the wall.' 'Why, there hasn't been time for the bushes to grow. That's always the way with the blueberries, though: There may not have been the ghost of a sign Of them anywhere under the shade of the pine, But get the pine out of the way, you may burn The pasture all over until not a fern Or grass-blade is left, not to mention a stick, And presto, they're up all around you as thick And hard to explain as a conjuror's trick.' 'It must be on charcoal they fatten their fruit. I taste in them sometimes the flavour of soot. And after all really they're ebony skinned: The blue's but a mist from the breath of the wind, A tarnish that goes at a touch of the hand, And less than the tan with which pickers are tanned.' 'Does Mortenson know what he has, do you think? ' 'He may and not care and so leave the chewink To gather them for him—you know what he is. He won't make the fact that they're rightfully his An excuse for keeping us other folk out.' 'I wonder you didn't see Loren about.' 'The best of it was that I did. Do you know, I was just getting through what the field had to show And over the wall and into the road, When who should come by, with a democrat-load Of all the young chattering Lorens alive, But Loren, the fatherly, out for a drive.' 'He saw you, then? What did he do? Did he frown? ' 'He just kept nodding his head up and down. You know how politely he always goes by. But he thought a big thought—I could tell by his eye— Which being expressed, might be this in effect: 'I have left those there berries, I shrewdly suspect, To ripen too long. I am greatly to blame.'' 'He's a thriftier person than some I could name.' 'He seems to be thrifty; and hasn't he need, With the mouths of all those young Lorens to feed? He has brought them all up on wild berries, they say, Like birds. They store a great many away. They eat them the year round, and those they don't eat They sell in the store and buy shoes for their feet.' 'Who cares what they say? It's a nice way to live, Just taking what Nature is willing to give, Not forcing her hand with harrow and plow.' 'I wish you had seen his perpetual bow— And the air of the youngsters! Not one of them turned, And they looked so solemn-absurdly concerned.' 'I wish I knew half what the flock of them know Of where all the berries and other things grow, Cranberries in bogs and raspberries on top Of the boulder-strewn mountain, and when they will crop. I met them one day and each had a flower Stuck into his berries as fresh as a shower; Some strange kind—they told me it hadn't a name.' 'I've told you how once not long after we came, I almost provoked poor Loren to mirth By going to him of all people on earth To ask if he knew any fruit to be had For the picking. The rascal, he said he'd be glad To tell if he knew. But the year had been bad. There had been some berries—but those were all gone. He didn't say where they had been. He went on: 'I'm sure—I'm sure'—as polite as could be. He spoke to his wife in the door, 'Let me see, Mame, we don't know any good berrying place? ' It was all he could do to keep a straight face. 'If he thinks all the fruit that grows wild is for him, He'll find he's mistaken. See here, for a whim, We'll pick in the Mortensons' pasture this year. We'll go in the morning, that is, if it's clear, And the sun shines out warm: the vines must be wet. It's so long since I picked I almost forget How we used to pick berries: we took one look round, Then sank out of sight like trolls underground, And saw nothing more of each other, or heard, Unless when you said I was keeping a bird Away from its nest, and I said it was you. 'Well, one of us is.' For complaining it flew Around and around us. And then for a while We picked, till I feared you had wandered a mile, And I thought I had lost you. I lifted a shout Too loud for the distance you were, it turned out, For when you made answer, your voice was as low As talking—you stood up beside me, you know.' 'We sha'n't have the place to ourselves to enjoy— Not likely, when all the young Lorens deploy. They'll be there to-morrow, or even to-night. They won't be too friendly—they may be polite— To people they look on as having no right To pick where they're picking. But we won't complain. You ought to have seen how it looked in the rain, The fruit mixed with water in layers of leaves, Like two kinds of jewels, a vision for thieves.'",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14467": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14467,
"poem.id": 14467,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:31:14",
"poem.title": "On Looking Up By Chance At The Constellations",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14468": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14468,
"poem.id": 14468,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:31:16",
"poem.title": "Leaves Compared With Flowers",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14469": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14469,
"poem.id": 14469,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:31:19",
"poem.title": "Into My Own",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14470": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14470,
"poem.id": 14470,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:31:22",
"poem.title": "My November Guest",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14471": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14471,
"poem.id": 14471,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:31:28",
"poem.title": "Going For Water",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14472": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14472,
"poem.id": 14472,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:31:32",
"poem.title": "Good-Bye, And Keep Cold",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14473": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14473,
"poem.id": 14473,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:31:35",
"poem.title": "Fragmentary Blue",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14474": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14474,
"poem.id": 14474,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:31:40",
"poem.title": "Mowing",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14475": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14475,
"poem.id": 14475,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:31:44",
"poem.title": "My Butterfly",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14476": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14476,
"poem.id": 14476,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:31:48",
"poem.title": "The Sound Of Trees",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14477": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14477,
"poem.id": 14477,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:31:55",
"poem.title": "But Outer Space",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14478": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14478,
"poem.id": 14478,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:32:00",
"poem.title": "The Telephone",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14479": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14479,
"poem.id": 14479,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:32:03",
"poem.title": "Spring Pools",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14480": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14480,
"poem.id": 14480,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:32:09",
"poem.title": "Home Burial",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "He saw her from the bottom of the stairsBefore she saw him. She was starting down,Looking back over her shoulder at some fear.She took a doubtful step and then undid itTo raise herself and look again. He spokeAdvancing toward her: \"What is it you seeFrom up there always? -- for I want to know.\"She turned and sank upon her skirts at that,And her face changed from terrified to dull.He said to gain time: \"What is it you see?\"Mounting until she cowered under him.\"I will find out now -- you must tell me, dear.\"She, in her place, refused him any help,With the least stiffening of her neck and silence.She let him look, sure that he wouldn't see,Blind creature; and a while he didn't see.But at last he murmured, \"Oh\" and again, \"Oh.\"\"What is it -- what?\" she said. \"Just that I see.\"\"You don't,\" she challenged. \"Tell me what it is.\"\"The wonder is I didn't see at once.I never noticed it from here before.I must be wonted to it -- that's the reason.The little graveyard where my people are!So small the window frames the whole of it.Not so much larger than a bedroom, is it?There are three stones of slate and one of marble,Broad-shouldered little slabs there in the sunlightOn the sidehill. We haven't to mind those.But I understand: it is not the stones,But the child's mound ----\" \"Don't, don't, don't, don't,\" she cried.She withdrew, shrinking from beneath his armThat rested on the banister, and slid downstairs;And turned on him with such a daunting look,He said twice over before he knew himself:\"Can't a man speak of his own child he's lost?\"\"Not you! -- Oh, where's my hat? Oh, I don't need it!I must get out of here. I must get air.--I don't know rightly whether any man can.\"\"Amy! Don't go to someone else this time.Listen to me. I won't come down the stairs.\"He sat and fixed his chin between his fists.\"There's something I should like to ask you, dear.\"\"You don't know how to ask it.\" \"Help me, then.\"Her fingers moved the latch for all reply.\"My words are nearly always an offense.I don't know how to speak of anythingSo as to please you. But I might be taught,I should suppose. I can't say I see how.A man must partly give up being a manWith womenfolk. We could have some arrangementBy which I'd bind myself to keep hands offAnything special you're a-mind to name.Though I don't like such things 'twixt those that love.Two that don't love can't live together without them.But two that do can't live together with them.\"She moved the latch a little. \"Don't -- don't go.Don't carry it to someone else this time.Tell me about it if it's something human.Let me into your grief. I'm not so muchUnlike other folks as your standing thereApart would make me out. Give me my chance.I do think, though, you overdo it a little.What was it brought you up to think it the thingTo take your mother-loss of a first childSo inconsolably -- in the face of love.You'd think his memory might be satisfied ----\"\"There you go sneering now!\" \"I'm not, I'm not!You make me angry. I'll come down to you.God, what a woman! And it's come to this,A man can't speak of his own child that's dead.\"\"You can't because you don't know how to speak.If you had any feelings, you that dugWith your own hand -- how could you? -- his little grave;I saw you from that very window there,Making the gravel leap and leap in air,Leap up, like that, like that, and land so lightlyAnd roll back down the mound beside the hole.I thought, Who is that man? I didn't know you.And I crept down the stairs and up the stairsTo look again, and still your spade kept lifting.Then you came in. I heard your rumbling voiceOut in the kitchen, and I don't know why,But I went near to see with my own eyes.You could sit there with the stains on your shoesOf the fresh earth from your own baby's graveAnd talk about your everyday concerns.You had stood the spade up against the wallOutside there in the entry, for I saw it.\"\"I shall laugh the worst laugh I ever laughed.I'm cursed. God, if I don't believe I'm cursed.\"\"I can repeat the very words you were saying:'Three foggy mornings and one rainy dayWill rot the best birch fence a man can build.'Think of it, talk like that at such a time!What had how long it takes a birch to rotTo do with what was in the darkened parlour?You couldn't care! The nearest friends can goWith anyone to death, comes so far shortThey might as well not try to go at all.No, from the time when one is sick to death,One is alone, and he dies more alone.Friends make pretense of following to the grave,But before one is in it, their minds are turnedAnd making the best of their way back to lifeAnd living people, and things they understand.But the world's evil. I won't have grief soIf I can change it. Oh, I won't, I won't!\"\"There, you have said it all and you feel better.You won't go now. You're crying. Close the door.The heart's gone out of it: why keep it up?Amyl There's someone coming down the road!\"\"You -- oh, you think the talk is all. I must go --Somewhere out of this house. How can I make you ----\"\"If -- you -- do!\" She was opening the door wider.\"Where do you mean to go? First tell me that.I'll follow and bring you back by force. I will! --\"",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14481": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14481,
"poem.id": 14481,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:32:13",
"poem.title": "Now Close The Windows",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14482": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14482,
"poem.id": 14482,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:32:22",
"poem.title": "God's Garden",
"poem.date": "3/29/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14483": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14483,
"poem.id": 14483,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:32:25",
"poem.title": "The Tuft Of Flowers",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "I went to turn the grass once after one Who mowed it in the dew before the sun. The dew was gone that made his blade so keen Before I came to view the levelled scene. I looked for him behind an isle of trees; I listened for his whetstone on the breeze. But he had gone his way, the grass all mown, And I must be, as he had been,—alone, 'As all must be,' I said within my heart, 'Whether they work together or apart.' But as I said it, swift there passed me by On noiseless wing a bewildered butterfly, Seeking with memories grown dim over night Some resting flower of yesterday's delight. And once I marked his flight go round and round, As where some flower lay withering on the ground. And then he flew as far as eye could see, And then on tremulous wing came back to me. I thought of questions that have no reply, And would have turned to toss the grass to dry; But he turned first, and led my eye to look At a tall tuft of flowers beside a brook, A leaping tongue of bloom the scythe had spared Beside a reedy brook the scythe had bared. I left my place to know them by their name, Finding them butterfly-weed when I came. The mower in the dew had loved them thus, By leaving them to flourish, not for us, Nor yet to draw one thought of ours to him, But from sheer morning gladness at the brim. The butterfly and I had lit upon, Nevertheless, a message from the dawn, That made me hear the wakening birds around, And hear his long scythe whispering to the ground, And feel a spirit kindred to my own; So that henceforth I worked no more alone; But glad with him, I worked as with his aid, And weary, sought at noon with him the shade; And dreaming, as it were, held brotherly speech With one whose thought I had not hoped to reach. 'Men work together,' I told him from the heart, 'Whether they work together or apart.'",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14484": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14484,
"poem.id": 14484,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:32:29",
"poem.title": "Bond And Free",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14485": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14485,
"poem.id": 14485,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:32:32",
"poem.title": "Revelation",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14486": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14486,
"poem.id": 14486,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:32:39",
"poem.title": "The Aim Was Song",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14487": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14487,
"poem.id": 14487,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:32:45",
"poem.title": "The Soldier",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14488": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14488,
"poem.id": 14488,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:32:50",
"poem.title": "Carpe Diem",
"poem.date": "3/29/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14489": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14489,
"poem.id": 14489,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:32:54",
"poem.title": "Flower-Gathering",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14490": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14490,
"poem.id": 14490,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:32:57",
"poem.title": "The Gift Outright",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14491": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14491,
"poem.id": 14491,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:33:00",
"poem.title": "The Pasture",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14492": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14492,
"poem.id": 14492,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:33:03",
"poem.title": "Evening In A Sugar Orchard",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14493": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14493,
"poem.id": 14493,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:33:07",
"poem.title": "Neither Out Far Nor In Deep",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14494": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14494,
"poem.id": 14494,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:33:14",
"poem.title": "Two Tramps In Mud Time",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "Out of the mud two strangers cameAnd caught me splitting wood in the yard,And one of them put me off my aimBy hailing cheerily \"Hit them hard!\"I knew pretty well why he had dropped behindAnd let the other go on a way.I knew pretty well what he had in mind:He wanted to take my job for pay.Good blocks of oak it was I split,As large around as the chopping block;And every piece I squarely hitFell splinterless as a cloven rock.The blows that a life of self-controlSpares to strike for the common good,That day, giving a loose my soul,I spent on the unimportant wood.The sun was warm but the wind was chill.You know how it is with an April dayWhen the sun is out and the wind is still,You're one month on in the middle of May.But if you so much as dare to speak,A cloud comes over the sunlit arch,A wind comes off a frozen peak,And you're two months back in the middle of March.A bluebird comes tenderly up to alightAnd turns to the wind to unruffle a plume,His song so pitched as not to exciteA single flower as yet to bloom.It is snowing a flake; and he half knewWinter was only playing possum.Except in color he isn't blue,But he wouldn't advise a thing to blossom.The water for which we may have to lookIn summertime with a witching wand,In every wheelrut's now a brook,In every print of a hoof a pond.Be glad of water, but don't forgetThe lurking frost in the earth beneathThat will steal forth after the sun is setAnd show on the water its crystal teeth.The time when most I loved my taskThe two must make me love it moreBy coming with what they came to ask.You'd think I never had felt beforeThe weight of an ax-head poised aloft,The grip of earth on outspread feet,The life of muscles rocking softAnd smooth and moist in vernal heat.Out of the wood two hulking tramps(From sleeping God knows where last night,But not long since in the lumber camps).They thought all chopping was theirs of right.Men of the woods and lumberjacks,They judged me by their appropriate tool.Except as a fellow handled an axThey had no way of knowing a fool.Nothing on either side was said.They knew they had but to stay their stayAnd all their logic would fill my head:As that I had no right to playWith what was another man's work for gain.My right might be love but theirs was need.And where the two exist in twainTheirs was the better right--agreed.But yield who will to their separation,My object in living is to uniteMy avocation and my vocationAs my two eyes make one in sight.Only where love and need are one,And the work is play for mortal stakes,Is the deed ever really doneFor Heaven and the future's sakes.",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14495": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14495,
"poem.id": 14495,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:33:22",
"poem.title": "Once By The Pacific",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14496": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14496,
"poem.id": 14496,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:33:25",
"poem.title": "Never Again Would Bird's Song Be The Same",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14497": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14497,
"poem.id": 14497,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:33:27",
"poem.title": "October",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14498": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14498,
"poem.id": 14498,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:33:33",
"poem.title": "Come In",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14499": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14499,
"poem.id": 14499,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:33:35",
"poem.title": "Out, Out",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14500": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14500,
"poem.id": 14500,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:33:41",
"poem.title": "Stars",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14501": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14501,
"poem.id": 14501,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:33:45",
"poem.title": "Gathering Leaves",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14502": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14502,
"poem.id": 14502,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:33:51",
"poem.title": "Ghost House",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14503": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14503,
"poem.id": 14503,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:33:55",
"poem.title": "Design",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14504": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14504,
"poem.id": 14504,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:34:00",
"poem.title": "\"In White\": Frost's Early Version Of Design",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14505": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14505,
"poem.id": 14505,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:34:07",
"poem.title": "A Servant To Servants",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "I didn't make you know how glad I wasTo have you come and camp here on our land.I promised myself to get down some dayAnd see the way you lived, but I don't know!With a houseful of hungry men to feedI guess you'd find.... It seems to meI can't express my feelings any moreThan I can raise my voice or want to liftMy hand (oh, I can lift it when I have to).Did ever you feel so? I hope you never.It's got so I don't even know for sureWhether I am glad, sorry, or anything.There's nothing but a voice-like left insideThat seems to tell me how I ought to feel,And would feel if I wasn't all gone wrong.You take the lake. I look and look at it.I see it's a fair, pretty sheet of water.I stand and make myself repeat out loudThe advantages it has, so long and narrow,Like a deep piece of some old running riverCut short off at both ends. It lies five milesStraight away through the mountain notchFrom the sink window where I wash the plates,And all our storms come up toward the house,Drawing the slow waves whiter and whiter and whiter.It took my mind off doughnuts and soda biscuitTo step outdoors and take the water dazzleA sunny morning, or take the rising windAbout my face and body and through my wrapper,When a storm threatened from the Dragon's Den,And a cold chill shivered across the lake.I see it's a fair, pretty sheet of water,Our Willoughby! How did you hear of it?I expect, though, everyone's heard of it.In a book about ferns? Listen to that!You let things more like feathers regulateYour going and coming. And you like it here?I can see how you might. But I don't know!It would be different if more people came,For then there would be business. As it is,The cottages Len built, sometimes we rent them,Sometimes we don't. We've a good piece of shoreThat ought to be worth something, and may yet.But I don't count on it as much as Len.He looks on the bright side of everything,Including me. He thinks I'll be all rightWith doctoring. But it's not medicine--Lowe is the only doctor's dared to say so--It's rest I want--there, I have said it out--From cooking meals for hungry hired menAnd washing dishes after them--from doingThings over and over that just won't stay done.By good rights I ought not to have so muchPut on me, but there seems no other way.Len says one steady pull more ought to do it.He says the best way out is always through.And I agree to that, or in so farAs that I can see no way out but through--Leastways for me--and then they'll be convinced.It's not that Len don't want the best for me.It was his plan our moving over inBeside the lake from where that day I showed youWe used to live--ten miles from anywhere.We didn't change without some sacrifice,But Len went at it to make up the loss.His work's a man's, of course, from sun to sun,But he works when he works as hard as I do--Though there's small profit in comparisons.(Women and men will make them all the same.)But work ain't all. Len undertakes too much.He's into everything in town. This yearIt's highways, and he's got too many menAround him to look after that make waste.They take advantage of him shamefully,And proud, too, of themselves for doing so.We have four here to board, great good-for-nothings,Sprawling about the kitchen with their talkWhile I fry their bacon. Much they care!No more put out in what they do or sayThan if I wasn't in the room at all.Coming and going all the time, they are:I don't learn what their names are, let aloneTheir characters, or whether they are safeTo have inside the house with doors unlocked.I'm not afraid of them, though, if they're notAfraid of me. There's two can play at that.I have my fancies: it runs in the family.My father's brother wasn't right. They kept himLocked up for years back there at the old farm.I've been away once--yes, I've been away.The State Asylum. I was prejudiced;I wouldn't have sent anyone of mine there;You know the old idea--the only asylumWas the poorhouse, and those who could afford,Rather than send their folks to such a place,Kept them at home; and it does seem more human.But it's not so: the place is the asylum.There they have every means proper to do with,And you aren't darkening other people's lives--Worse than no good to them, and they no goodTo you in your condition; you can't knowAffection or the want of it in that state.I've heard too much of the old-fashioned way.My father's brother, he went mad quite young.Some thought he had been bitten by a dog,Because his violence took on the formOf carrying his pillow in his teeth;But it's more likely he was crossed in love,Or so the story goes. It was some girl.Anyway all he talked about was love.They soon saw he would do someone a mischiefIf he wa'n't kept strict watch of, and it endedIn father's building him a sort of cage,Or room within a room, of hickory poles,Like stanchions in the barn, from floor to ceiling,--A narrow passage all the way around.Anything they put in for furnitureHe'd tear to pieces, even a bed to lie on.So they made the place comfortable with straw,Like a beast's stall, to ease their consciences.Of course they had to feed him without dishes.They tried to keep him clothed, but he paradedWith his clothes on his arm--all of his clothes.Cruel--it sounds. I 'spose they did the bestThey knew. And just when he was at the height,Father and mother married, and mother came,A bride, to help take care of such a creature,And accommodate her young life to his.That was what marrying father meant to her.She had to lie and hear love things made dreadfulBy his shouts in the night. He'd shout and shoutUntil the strength was shouted out of him,And his voice died down slowly from exhaustion.He'd pull his bars apart like bow and bow-string,And let them go and make them twang untilHis hands had worn them smooth as any ox-bow.And then he'd crow as if he thought that child's play--The only fun he had. I've heard them say, though,They found a way to put a stop to it.He was before my time--I never saw him;But the pen stayed exactly as it wasThere in the upper chamber in the ell,A sort of catch-all full of attic clutter.I often think of the smooth hickory bars.It got so I would say--you know, half fooling--\"It's time I took my turn upstairs in jail\"--Just as you will till it becomes a habit.No wonder I was glad to get away.Mind you, I waited till Len said the word.I didn't want the blame if things went wrong.I was glad though, no end, when we moved out,And I looked to be happy, and I was,As I said, for a while--but I don't know!Somehow the change wore out like a prescription.And there's more to it than just window-viewsAnd living by a lake. I'm past such help--Unless Len took the notion, which he won't,And I won't ask him--it's not sure enough.I 'spose I've got to go the road I'm going:Other folks have to, and why shouldn't I?I almost think if I could do like you,Drop everything and live out on the ground--But it might be, come night, I shouldn't like it,Or a long rain. I should soon get enough,And be glad of a good roof overhead.I've lain awake thinking of you, I'll warrant,More than you have yourself, some of these nights.The wonder was the tents weren't snatched awayFrom over you as you lay in your beds.I haven't courage for a risk like that.Bless you, of course, you're keeping me from work,But the thing of it is, I need to be kept.There's work enough to do--there's always that;But behind's behind. The worst that you can doIs set me back a little more behind.I sha'n't catch up in this world, anyway.I'd rather you'd not go unless you must.",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14506": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14506,
"poem.id": 14506,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:34:14",
"poem.title": "Tree At My Window",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14507": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14507,
"poem.id": 14507,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:34:17",
"poem.title": "Dust Of Snow",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14508": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14508,
"poem.id": 14508,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:34:20",
"poem.title": "Devotion",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14509": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14509,
"poem.id": 14509,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:34:23",
"poem.title": "Fireflies In The Garden",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14510": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14510,
"poem.id": 14510,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:34:26",
"poem.title": "The Silken Tent",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14511": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14511,
"poem.id": 14511,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:34:30",
"poem.title": "A Cliff Dwelling",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14512": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14512,
"poem.id": 14512,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:34:32",
"poem.title": "An Old Man's Winter Night",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14513": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14513,
"poem.id": 14513,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:34:36",
"poem.title": "A Dream Pang",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14514": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14514,
"poem.id": 14514,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:34:43",
"poem.title": "The Secret Sits",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14515": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14515,
"poem.id": 14515,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:34:46",
"poem.title": "Bereft",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "Your browser does not support the audio element.",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14516": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14516,
"poem.id": 14516,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:34:49",
"poem.title": "A Line-Storm Song",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14517": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14517,
"poem.id": 14517,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:34:53",
"poem.title": "Desert Places",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14518": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14518,
"poem.id": 14518,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:34:56",
"poem.title": "Mending Wall",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "Something there is that doesn't love a wall, That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it, And spills the upper boulders in the sun; And makes gaps even two can pass abreast. The work of hunters is another thing: I have come after them and made repair Where they have left not one stone on a stone, But they would have the rabbit out of hiding, To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean, No one has seen them made or heard them made, But at spring mending-time we find them there. I let my neighbour know beyond the hill; And on a day we meet to walk the line And set the wall between us once again. We keep the wall between us as we go. To each the boulders that have fallen to each. And some are loaves and some so nearly balls We have to use a spell to make them balance: \"Stay where you are until our backs are turned!\" We wear our fingers rough with handling them. Oh, just another kind of out-door game, One on a side. It comes to little more: There where it is we do not need the wall: He is all pine and I am apple orchard. My apple trees will never get across And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him. He only says, \"Good fences make good neighbours.\" Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder If I could put a notion in his head: \"Why do they make good neighbours? Isn't it Where there are cows? But here there are no cows. Before I built a wall I'd ask to know What I was walling in or walling out, And to whom I was like to give offence. Something there is that doesn't love a wall, That wants it down.\" I could say \"Elves\" to him, But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather He said it for himself. I see him there Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed. He moves in darkness as it seems to me, Not of woods only and the shade of trees. He will not go behind his father's saying, And he likes having thought of it so well He says again, \"Good fences make good neighbours.\"",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14519": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14519,
"poem.id": 14519,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:35:02",
"poem.title": "A Considerable Speck",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14520": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14520,
"poem.id": 14520,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:35:08",
"poem.title": "A Patch Of Old Snow",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14521": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14521,
"poem.id": 14521,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:35:11",
"poem.title": "After Apple Picking",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14522": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14522,
"poem.id": 14522,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:35:14",
"poem.title": "The Rose Family",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "Your browser does not support the audio element.",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14523": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14523,
"poem.id": 14523,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:35:19",
"poem.title": "A Boundless Moment",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14524": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14524,
"poem.id": 14524,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:35:23",
"poem.title": "Asking For Roses",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14525": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14525,
"poem.id": 14525,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:35:27",
"poem.title": "A Brook In The City",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14526": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14526,
"poem.id": 14526,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:35:33",
"poem.title": "Birches",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "When I see birches bend to left and rightAcross the lines of straighter darker trees,I like to think some boy's been swinging them.But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay.Ice-storms do that. Often you must have seen themLoaded with ice a sunny winter morningAfter a rain. They click upon themselvesAs the breeze rises, and turn many-colouredAs the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shellsShattering and avalanching on the snow-crustSuch heaps of broken glass to sweep awayYou'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,And they seem not to break; though once they are bowedSo low for long, they never right themselves:You may see their trunks arching in the woodsYears afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground,Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hairBefore them over their heads to dry in the sun.But I was going to say when Truth broke inWith all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm,I should prefer to have some boy bend themAs he went out and in to fetch the cows- Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,Whose only play was what he found himself,Summer or winter, and could play alone.One by one he subdued his father's treesBy riding them down over and over againUntil he took the stiffness out of them,And not one but hung limp, not one was leftFor him to conquer. He learned all there wasTo learn about not launching out too soonAnd so not carrying the tree awayClear to the ground. He always kept his poiseTo the top branches, climbing carefullyWith the same pains you use to fill a cupUp to the brim, and even above the brim.Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.So was I once myself a swinger of birches.And so I dream of going back to be.It's when I'm weary of considerations,And life is too much like a pathless woodWhere your face burns and tickles with the cobwebsBroken across it, and one eye is weepingFrom a twig's having lashed across it open.I'd like to get away from earth awhileAnd then come back to it and begin over.May no fate willfully misunderstand meAnd half grant what I wish and snatch me awayNot to return. Earth's the right place for love:I don't know where it's likely to go better.I'd like to go by climbing a birch treeAnd climb black branches up a snow-white trunkToward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,But dipped its top and set me down again.That would be good both going and coming back.One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14527": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14527,
"poem.id": 14527,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:35:39",
"poem.title": "A Time To Talk",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14528": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14528,
"poem.id": 14528,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:35:40",
"poem.title": "A Prayer In Spring",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14529": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14529,
"poem.id": 14529,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:35:42",
"poem.title": "A Soldier",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "Your browser does not support the audio element.",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14530": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14530,
"poem.id": 14530,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:35:45",
"poem.title": "A Question",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "Your browser does not support the audio element.",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14531": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14531,
"poem.id": 14531,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:35:48",
"poem.title": "A Minor Bird",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14532": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14532,
"poem.id": 14532,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:35:51",
"poem.title": "A Late Walk",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14533": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14533,
"poem.id": 14533,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:35:56",
"poem.title": "Acquainted With The Night",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14534": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14534,
"poem.id": 14534,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:35:57",
"poem.title": "Nothing Gold Can Stay",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14535": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14535,
"poem.id": 14535,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:36:00",
"poem.title": "Fire And Ice",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14536": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14536,
"poem.id": 14536,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:36:03",
"poem.title": "Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
},
"14537": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14537,
"poem.id": 14537,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:36:07",
"poem.title": "The Road Not Taken",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Robert Frost"
}
} |
| 2 | 2018-02-28 20:19:00 | Maya Angelou | {
"41": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 41,
"poem.id": 41,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:45:43",
"poem.title": "The Rock Cries Out to Us Today",
"poem.date": "2/8/2016",
"poem.content": "A Rock, A River, A TreeHosts to species long since departed,Mark the mastodon.The dinosaur, who left dry tokensOf their sojourn hereOn our planet floor,Any broad alarm of their of their hastening doomIs lost in the gloom of dust and ages.But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,Come, you may stand upon myBack and face your distant destiny,But seek no haven in my shadow.I will give you no hiding place down here.You, created only a little lower thanThe angels, have crouched too long inThe bruising darkness,Have lain too longFace down in ignorance.Your mouths spelling wordsArmed for slaughter.The rock cries out today, you may stand on me,But do not hide your face.Across the wall of the world,A river sings a beautiful song,Come rest here by my side.Each of you a bordered country,Delicate and strangely made proud,Yet thrusting perpetually under siege.Your armed struggles for profitHave left collars of waste uponMy shore, currents of debris upon my breast.Yet, today I call you to my riverside,If you will study war no more.Come, clad in peace and I will sing the songsThe Creator gave to me when IAnd the tree and stone were one.Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your browAnd when you yet knew you still knew nothing.The river sings and sings on.There is a true yearning to respond toThe singing river and the wise rock.So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew,The African and Native American, the Sioux,The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek,The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheikh,The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher,The privileged, the homeless, the teacher.They hear. They all hearThe speaking of the tree.Today, the first and last of every treeSpeaks to humankind. Come to me, here beside the river.Plant yourself beside me, here beside the river.Each of you, descendant of some passed onTraveller, has been paid for.You, who gave me my first name,You Pawnee, Apache and Seneca,You Cherokee Nation, who rested with me,Then forced on bloody feet,Left me to the employment of other seekers- Desperate for gain, starving for gold.You, the Turk, the Swede, the German, the Scot...You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru,Bought, sold, stolen, arriving on a nightmarePraying for a dream.Here, root yourselves beside me.I am the tree planted by the river,Which will not be moved.I, the rock, I the river, I the treeI am yours- your passages have been paid.Lift up your faces, you have a piercing needFor this bright morning dawning for you.History, despite its wrenching pain,Cannot be unlived, and if faced with courage,Need not be lived again.Lift up your eyes uponThe day breaking for you.Give birth againTo the dream.Women, children, men,Take it into the palms of your hands.Mold it into the shape of your mostPrivate need. Sculpt it intoThe image of your most public self.Lift up your hearts.Each new hour holds new chancesFor new beginnings.Do not be wedded foreverTo fear, yoked eternallyTo brutishness.The horizon leans forward,Offering you space to place new steps of change.Here, on the pulse of this fine dayYou may have the courageTo look up and out upon me,The rock, the river, the tree, your country.No less to Midas than the mendicant.No less to you now than the mastodon then.Here on the pulse of this new dayYou may have the grace to look up and outAnd into your sister's eyes,Into your brother's face, your countryAnd say simplyVery simplyWith hopeGood morning.",
"poem.author": "Maya Angelou"
},
"42": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 42,
"poem.id": 42,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:45:50",
"poem.title": "Song for the Old Ones",
"poem.date": "3/9/2016",
"poem.content": "My Fathers sit on benches their flesh counts every plank the slats leave dents of darknessdeep in their withered flanks.They nod like broken candles all waxed and burnt profound they say 'It's understandingthat makes the world go round.'There in those pleated faces I see the auction block the chains and slavery's cofflesthe whip and lash and stock.My Fathers speak in voices that shred my fact and sound they say 'It's our submissionthat makes the world go round.'They used the finest cunning their naked wits and wiles the lowly Uncle Tommingand Aunt Jemima's smiles.They've laughed to shield their crying then shuffled through their dreams and stepped 'n' fetched a countryto write the blues with screams.I understand their meaning it could and did derive from living on the edge of deathThey kept my race alive.",
"poem.author": "Maya Angelou"
},
"43": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 43,
"poem.id": 43,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:45:53",
"poem.title": "In All Ways A Woman",
"poem.date": "3/9/2016",
"poem.content": "In my young years I took pride in the fact that luck was called a lady. In fact, there were so few public acknowledgments of the female presence that I felt personally honored whenever nature and large ships were referred to as feminine. But as I matured, I began to resent being considered a sister to a changeling as fickle as luck, as aloof as an ocean, and as frivolous as nature. The phrase 'A woman always has the right to change her mind' played so aptly into the negative image of the female that I made myself a victim to an unwavering decision. Even if I made an inane and stupid choice, I stuck by it rather than 'be like a woman and change my mind.'Being a woman is hard work. Not without joy and even ecstasy, but still relentless, unending work. Becoming an old female may require only being born with certain genitalia, inheriting long-living genes and the fortune not to be run over by an out-of-control truck, but to become and remain a woman command the existence and employment of genius.The woman who survives intact and happy must be at once tender and tough. She must have convinced herself, or be in the unending process of convincing herself, that she, her values, and her choices are important. In a time a nd world where males hold sway and control, the pressure upon women to yield their rights-of-way is tremendous. And it is under those very circumstances that the woman's toughness must be in evidence.She must resist considering herself a lesser version of her male counterpart. She is not a sculptress, poetess, authoress, Jewess, Negress, or even (now rare) in university parlance a rectoress. If she is the thing, then for her own sense of self and for the education of the ill-informed she must insist with rectitude in being the thing and in being called the thing.A rose by any other name may smell as sweet, but a woman called by a devaluing name will only be weakened by the misnomer. She will need to prize her tenderness and be able to display it at appropriate times in order to prevent toughness from gaining total authority and to avoid becoming a mirror image of those men who value power above life, and control over love.It is imperative that a woman keep her sense of humor intact and at the ready. She must see, even if only in secret, that she is the funniest, looniest woman in her world, which she should also see as being the most absurd world of all times. It has been said that laughter is therapeutic and amiability lengthens the life span. Women should be tough, tender, laugh as much as possible, and live long lives. The struggle for equality continues unabated, and the woman warrior who is armed with wit and courage will be among the first to celebrate victory.",
"poem.author": "Maya Angelou"
},
"44": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 44,
"poem.id": 44,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:46:00",
"poem.title": "Glory Falls",
"poem.date": "3/9/2016",
"poem.content": "Glory falls around us as we sob a dirge of desolation on the Cross and hatred is the ballast of the rock which his upon our necks and underfoot. We have woven robes of silk and clothed our nakedness with tapestry. From crawling on this murky planet's floor we soar beyond the birds and through the clouds and edge our waays from hate and blind despair and bring horror to our brothers, and to our sisters cheer. We grow despite the horror that we feed upon our own tomorrow. We grow.",
"poem.author": "Maya Angelou"
},
"45": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 45,
"poem.id": 45,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:46:06",
"poem.title": "The Week of Diana",
"poem.date": "3/9/2016",
"poem.content": "The dark lantern of world sadness has cast its shadow upon the land.We stumble into our misery on leaden feet.Our minds seek to comprehend the unknowable and our hearts seek toMeasure a tomorrow without the Sunshine Princess.Her hands which had held bright tiaras and jewelled crowns,Also stroked the faces of pain alongAngola's dusty roads.She was born to the privilege of plentyYet, she communed with the needy without a show of pompous piety.Glowing in Bosnia, radiant at glittering balls,We came to love her and claim her for her grace and accessibility.Luminous always.We smiled to see her enter and grinned at her happiness.Now the world we made is forever changed…Made smaller, meaner, less colorful.Yet, because she did live,Because she ventured life and confronted change,She has left us a legacy.We also may dare…To care for some other than ourselves and those who look like us.And maybe we can take a lesson from herAnd try to live our livesWith passion, compassion, humor and grace.Goodbye Sunshine Princess.",
"poem.author": "Maya Angelou"
},
"46": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 46,
"poem.id": 46,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:46:09",
"poem.title": "Harlem Hopscotch",
"poem.date": "3/9/2016",
"poem.content": "One foot down, then hop! It's hot. Good things for the ones that's got.Another jump, now to the left. Everybody for hisself.In the air, now both feet down. Since you black, don't stick around.Food is gone, the rent is due, Curse and cry and then jump two.All the people out of work, Hold for three, then twist and jerk.Cross the line, they count you out. That's what hopping's all about.Both feet flat, the game is done.They think I lost. I think I won.",
"poem.author": "Maya Angelou"
},
"47": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 47,
"poem.id": 47,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:46:16",
"poem.title": "The Traveller",
"poem.date": "3/9/2016",
"poem.content": "Byways and bygoneAnd lone nights longSun rays and sea wavesAnd star and stoneManless and friendlessNo cave my homeThis is my tortureMy long nights, lone",
"poem.author": "Maya Angelou"
},
"48": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 48,
"poem.id": 48,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:46:19",
"poem.title": "The Black Family Pledge",
"poem.date": "3/9/2016",
"poem.content": "BECAUSE we have forgotten our ancestors,our children no longer give us honor.BECAUSE we have lost the path our ancestors clearedkneeling in perilous undergrowth,our children cannot find their way.BECAUSE we have banished the God of our ancestors,our children cannot pray.BECAUSE the old wails of our ancestors have faded beyond our hearing,our children cannot hear us crying.BECAUSE we have abandoned our wisdom of mothering and fathering,our befuddled children give birth to childrenthey neither want nor understand.BECAUSE we have forgotten how to love, the adversary is within ourgates, an holds us up to the mirror of the world shouting,'Regard the loveless'Therefore we pledge to bind ourselves to one another, to embrace ourlowliest, to keep company with our loneliest, to educate our illiterate,to feed our starving, to clothe our ragged, to do all good things,knowing that we are more than keepers of our brothers and sisters.We ARE our brothers and sisters.IN HONOR of those who toiled and implored God with golden tongues,and in gratitude to the same God who brought us out of hopeless desolation, we make this pledge.",
"poem.author": "Maya Angelou"
},
"49": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 49,
"poem.id": 49,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:46:22",
"poem.title": "Our Grandmothers",
"poem.date": "7/14/2015",
"poem.content": "She lay, skin down in the moist dirt, the canebrake rustling with the whispers of leaves, and loud longing of hounds and the ransack of hunters crackling the near branches.She muttered, lifting her head a nod toward freedom, I shall not, I shall not be moved.She gathered her babies, their tears slick as oil on black faces, their young eyes canvassing mornings of madness. Momma, is Master going to sell you from us tomorrow?Yes. Unless you keep walking more and talking less. Yes. Unless the keeper of our lives releases me from all commandments. Yes. And your lives, never mine to live, will be executed upon the killing floor of innocents. Unless you match my heart and words, saying with me,I shall not be moved.In Virginia tobacco fields, leaning into the curve of Steinway pianos, along Arkansas roads, in the red hills of Georgia, into the palms of her chained hands, she cried against calamity, You have tried to destroy me and though I perish daily,I shall not be moved.Her universe, often summarized into one black body falling finally from the tree to her feet, made her cry each time into a new voice. All my past hastens to defeat, and strangers claim the glory of my love, Iniquity has bound me to his bed.yet, I must not be moved.She heard the names, swirling ribbons in the wind of history: nigger, nigger bitch, heifer, mammy, property, creature, ape, baboon, whore, hot tail, thing, it. She said, But my description cannot fit your tongue, for I have a certain way of being in this world,and I shall not, I shall not be moved.No angel stretched protecting wings above the heads of her children, fluttering and urging the winds of reason into the confusions of their lives. The sprouted like young weeds, but she could not shield their growth from the grinding blades of ignorance, nor shape them into symbolic topiaries. She sent them away, underground, overland, in coaches and shoeless.When you learn, teach. When you get, give. As for me,I shall not be moved.She stood in midocean, seeking dry land. She searched God's face. Assured, she placed her fire of service on the altar, and though clothed in the finery of faith, when she appeared at the temple door, no sign welcomed Black Grandmother, Enter here.Into the crashing sound, into wickedness, she cried, No one, no, nor no one million ones dare deny me God, I go forth along, and stand as ten thousand.The Divine upon my right impels me to pull forever at the latch on Freedom's gate.The Holy Spirit upon my left leads my feet without ceasing into the camp of the righteous and into the tents of the free.These momma faces, lemon-yellow, plum-purple, honey-brown, have grimaced and twisted down a pyramid for years. She is Sheba the Sojourner, Harriet and Zora, Mary Bethune and Angela, Annie to Zenobia.She stands before the abortion clinic, confounded by the lack of choices. In the Welfare line, reduced to the pity of handouts. Ordained in the pulpit, shielded by the mysteries. In the operating room, husbanding life. In the choir loft, holding God in her throat. On lonely street corners, hawking her body. In the classroom, loving the children to understanding.Centered on the world's stage, she sings to her loves and beloveds, to her foes and detractors: However I am perceived and deceived, however my ignorance and conceits, lay aside your fears that I will be undone,for I shall not be moved.",
"poem.author": "Maya Angelou"
},
"50": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 50,
"poem.id": 50,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:46:26",
"poem.title": "Ain't That Bad?",
"poem.date": "3/9/2016",
"poem.content": "Dancin' the funky chickenEatin' ribs and tipsDiggin' all the latest soundsAnd drinkin' gin in sips.Puttin' down that do-ragTighten' up my 'froWrappin' up in BlacknessDon't I shine and glow?Hearin' Stevie WonderCookin' beans and riceGoin' to the operaCheckin' out Leontyne Price.Get down, Jesse JacksonDance on, Alvin AileyTalk, Miss Barbara JordanGroove, Miss Pearlie Bailey.Now ain't they bad?An ain't they Black?An ain't they Black?An' ain't they Bad?An ain't they bad?An' ain't they Black?An' ain't they fine?Black like the hour of the nightWhen your love turns and wriggles close to your sideBlack as the earth which has given birthTo nations, and when all else is gone will abide.Bad as the storm that leaps raging from the heavensBringing the welcome rainBad as the sun burning orange hot at middayLifting the waters again.Arthur Ashe on the tennis courtMohammed Ali in the ringAndre Watts and Andrew YoungBlack men doing their thing.Dressing in purples and pinks and greensExotic as rum and CokesLiving our lives with flash and styleAin't we colorful folks?Now ain't we bad?An' ain't we Black?An' ain't we Black?An' ain't we bad?An' ain't we bad?An' ain't we Black?An' ain't we fine?",
"poem.author": "Maya Angelou"
},
"51": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 51,
"poem.id": 51,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:46:29",
"poem.title": "When I Think About Myself",
"poem.date": "9/15/2015",
"poem.content": "When I think about myself, I almost laugh myself to death, My life has been one great big joke, A dance that's walked A song that's spoke, I laugh so hard I almost choke When I think about myself.Sixty years in these folks' world The child I works for calls me girl I say 'Yes ma'am' for working's sake. Too proud to bend Too poor to break, I laugh until my stomach ache, When I think about myself.My folks can make me split my side, I laughed so hard I nearly died, The tales they tell, sound just like lying, They grow the fruit, But eat the rind, I laugh until I start to crying, When I think about my folks.",
"poem.author": "Maya Angelou"
},
"52": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 52,
"poem.id": 52,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:46:35",
"poem.title": "Son to Mother",
"poem.date": "3/9/2016",
"poem.content": "I start nowars, raining poisonon cathedrals,melting Stars of Davidinto golden faucetsto be lighted by lampsshaded by human skin.I set nostore on the strange lands,send nomissionaries beyond myborders,to plunder secretsand barter souls.Theysay you took my manhood,Momma.Come sit on my lapand tell me,what do you want me to sayto them, justbefore I annihilatetheir ignorance ?",
"poem.author": "Maya Angelou"
},
"53": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 53,
"poem.id": 53,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:46:38",
"poem.title": "The Health-Food Diner",
"poem.date": "12/16/2014",
"poem.content": "The Health-Food DinerNo sprouted wheat and soya shootsAnd Brussels in a cake,Carrot straw and spinach raw,(Today, I need a steak).Not thick brown rice and rice pilawOr mushrooms creamed on toast,Turnips mashed and parsnips hashed,(I'm dreaming of a roast).Health-food folks around the worldAre thinned by anxious zeal,They look for help in seafood kelp(I count on breaded veal).No smoking signs, raw mustard greens,Zucchini by the ton,Uncooked kale and bodies frailAre sure to make me runtoLoins of pork and chicken thighsAnd standing rib, so prime,Pork chops brown and fresh ground round(I crave them all the time).Irish stews and boiled corned beefand hot dogs by the scores,or any place that saves a spaceFor smoking carnivores.",
"poem.author": "Maya Angelou"
},
"54": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 54,
"poem.id": 54,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:46:43",
"poem.title": "On Aging",
"poem.date": "5/14/2015",
"poem.content": "When you see me sitting quietly,Like a sack left on the shelf,Don’t think I need your chattering.I’m listening to myself.Hold! Stop! Don’t pity me! Hold! Stop your sympathy! Understanding if you got it,Otherwise I’ll do without it! When my bones are stiff and aching,And my feet won’t climb the stair,I will only ask one favor:Don’t bring me no rocking chair.When you see me walking, stumbling,Don’t study and get it wrong.‘Cause tired don’t mean lazyAnd every goodbye ain’t gone.I’m the same person I was back then,A little less hair, a little less chin,A lot less lungs and much less wind.But ain’t I lucky I can still breathe in.",
"poem.author": "Maya Angelou"
},
"55": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 55,
"poem.id": 55,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:46:49",
"poem.title": "These Yet To Be United States",
"poem.date": "1/17/2015",
"poem.content": "Tremors of your network cause kings to disappear. Your open mouth in anger makes nations bow in fear.Your bombs can change the seasons, obliterate the spring. What more do you long for ? Why are you suffering ?You control the human lives in Rome and Timbuktu. Lonely nomads wandering owe Telstar to you.Seas shift at your bidding, your mushrooms fill the sky. Why are you unhappy ? Why do your children cry ?They kneel alone in terror with dread in every glance. Their nights ['rights' ? - Schrift nicht lesbar] are threatened daily by a grim inheritance.You dwell in whitened castles with deep and poisoned moats and cannot hear the curses which fill your children's throats.",
"poem.author": "Maya Angelou"
},
"56": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 56,
"poem.id": 56,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:46:54",
"poem.title": "Preacher, Don't Send Me",
"poem.date": "3/9/2016",
"poem.content": "Preacher, don't send mewhen I dieto some big ghettoin the skywhere rats eat catsof the leopard typeand Sunday brunchis grits and tripe.I've known those ratsI've seen them killand grits I've hadwould make a hill,or maybe a mountain,so what I needfrom you on Sundayis a different creed.Preacher, please don'tpromise mestreets of goldand milk for free.I stopped all milkat four years oldand once I'm deadI won't need gold.I'd call a placepure paradisewhere families are loyaland strangers are nice,where the music is jazzand the season is fall.Promise me thator nothing at all.",
"poem.author": "Maya Angelou"
},
"57": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 57,
"poem.id": 57,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:46:59",
"poem.title": "Pickin Em Up and Layin Em Down",
"poem.date": "3/9/2016",
"poem.content": "There's a long-legged girlin San Franciscoby the Golden Gate.She said she'd give me all I wantedbut I just couldn't wait.I started toPickin em up and layin em down,Pickin em up and layin em down,Pickin em up and layin em down,gettin to the next townBaby.There's a pretty brownin Birmingham.Boys, she little and cutebut when she like to tied me downI had to grab my suit and started toPickin em up and layin em down,Pickin em up and layin em down,Pickin em up and layin em down,getting to the next townBaby.I met that lovely Detroit ladyand thought my time had comeBut just before I said \"I do\"I said \"I got to run\" and started toPickin em up and layin em down,Pickin em up and layin em down,Pickin em up and layin em down,getting to the next townBaby.There ain't no words for what I feelabout a pretty faceBut if I stay I just might missa prettier one some placeI started toPickin em up and layin em down,Pickin em up and layin em down,Pickin em up and layin em down,getting to the next townBaby.",
"poem.author": "Maya Angelou"
},
"58": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 58,
"poem.id": 58,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:47:05",
"poem.title": "Recovery",
"poem.date": "3/9/2016",
"poem.content": "A Last love,proper in conclusion,should snip the wingsforbidding further flight.But I, now,reft of that confusion,am lifted upand speeding toward the light.",
"poem.author": "Maya Angelou"
},
"59": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 59,
"poem.id": 59,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:47:08",
"poem.title": "I know why the caged bird sings",
"poem.date": "3/9/2016",
"poem.content": "A free bird leaps on the backOf the wind and floats downstream Till the current ends and dips his wing In the orange suns raysAnd dares to claim the sky.But a BIRD that stalks down his narrow cageCan seldom see through his bars of rageHis wings are clipped and his feet are tiedSo he opens his throat to sing.The caged bird sings with a fearful trillOf things unknown but longed for stillAnd his tune is heard on the distant hill forThe caged bird sings of freedom.The free bird thinks of another breezeAnd the trade winds soft throughThe sighing treesAnd the fat worms waiting on a dawn-brightLawn and he names the sky his own.But a caged BIRD stands on the grave of dreamsHis shadow shouts on a nightmare screamHis wings are clipped and his feet are tiedSo he opens his throat to sing.The caged bird sings withA fearful trill of things unknownBut longed for still and hisTune is heard on the distant hillFor the caged bird sings of freedom.",
"poem.author": "Maya Angelou"
},
"60": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 60,
"poem.id": 60,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:47:12",
"poem.title": "When Great Trees Fall",
"poem.date": "2/15/2016",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Maya Angelou"
},
"61": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 61,
"poem.id": 61,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:47:16",
"poem.title": "Old Folks Laugh",
"poem.date": "2/10/2015",
"poem.content": "They have spent theircontent of simpering,holding their lips thisand that way, windingthe lines betweentheir brows. Old folksallow their bellies to jiggle like slowtambourines.The hollersrise up and spillover any way they want.When old folks laugh, they free the world.They turn slowly, slyly knowingthe best and the worstof remembering.Saliva glistens inthe corners of their mouths,their heads wobbleon brittle necks, buttheir lapsare filled with memories.When old folks laugh, they consider the promiseof dear painless death, and generouslyforgive life for happeningto them.",
"poem.author": "Maya Angelou"
},
"62": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 62,
"poem.id": 62,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:47:17",
"poem.title": "Televised",
"poem.date": "3/9/2016",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Maya Angelou"
},
"63": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 63,
"poem.id": 63,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:47:23",
"poem.title": "Life Doesn't Frighten Me",
"poem.date": "8/6/2015",
"poem.content": "Shadows on the wallNoises down the hallLife doesn't frighten me at all Bad dogs barking loudBig ghosts in a cloudLife doesn't frighten me at all Mean old Mother GooseLions on the looseThey don't frighten me at all Dragons breathing flameOn my counterpaneThat doesn't frighten me at all. I go booMake them shooI make funWay they runI won't crySo they flyI just smileThey go wild Life doesn't frighten me at all. Tough guys fightAll alone at nightLife doesn't frighten me at all. Panthers in the parkStrangers in the darkNo, they don't frighten me at all. That new classroom whereBoys all pull my hair(Kissy little girlsWith their hair in curls)They don't frighten me at all. Don't show me frogs and snakesAnd listen for my scream,If I'm afraid at allIt's only in my dreams. I've got a magic charmThat I keep up my sleeveI can walk the ocean floorAnd never have to breathe. Life doesn't frighten me at allNot at allNot at all. Life doesn't frighten me at all.",
"poem.author": "Maya Angelou"
},
"64": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 64,
"poem.id": 64,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:47:26",
"poem.title": "Savior",
"poem.date": "3/9/2016",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Maya Angelou"
},
"65": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 65,
"poem.id": 65,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:47:30",
"poem.title": "California Prodigal",
"poem.date": "1/23/2012",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Maya Angelou"
},
"66": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 66,
"poem.id": 66,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:47:32",
"poem.title": "The Mothering Blackness",
"poem.date": "1/23/2012",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Maya Angelou"
},
"67": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 67,
"poem.id": 67,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:47:34",
"poem.title": "We Had Him",
"poem.date": "1/13/2014",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Maya Angelou"
},
"68": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 68,
"poem.id": 68,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:47:38",
"poem.title": "Human Family",
"poem.date": "12/4/2014",
"poem.content": "I note the obvious differencesin the human family.Some of us are serious,some thrive on comedy.Some declare their lives are livedas true profundity,and others claim they really livethe real reality.The variety of our skin tonescan confuse, bemuse, delight,brown and pink and beige and purple,tan and blue and white.I've sailed upon the seven seasand stopped in every land,I've seen the wonders of the worldnot yet one common man.I know ten thousand womencalled Jane and Mary Jane,but I've not seen any twowho really were the same.Mirror twins are differentalthough their features jibe,and lovers think quite different thoughtswhile lying side by side.We love and lose in China,we weep on England's moors,and laugh and moan in Guinea,and thrive on Spanish shores.We seek success in Finland,are born and die in Maine.In minor ways we differ,in major we're the same.I note the obvious differencesbetween each sort and type,but we are more alike, my friends,than we are unalike.We are more alike, my friends,than we are unalike.We are more alike, my friends,than we are unalike.",
"poem.author": "Maya Angelou"
},
"69": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 69,
"poem.id": 69,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:47:43",
"poem.title": "Kin",
"poem.date": "1/23/2012",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Maya Angelou"
},
"70": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 70,
"poem.id": 70,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:47:49",
"poem.title": "A Plagued Journey",
"poem.date": "1/23/2012",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Maya Angelou"
},
"71": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 71,
"poem.id": 71,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:47:52",
"poem.title": "Equality",
"poem.date": "1/3/2015",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Maya Angelou"
},
"72": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 72,
"poem.id": 72,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:47:59",
"poem.title": "Awaking In New York",
"poem.date": "1/23/2012",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Maya Angelou"
},
"73": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 73,
"poem.id": 73,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:48:04",
"poem.title": "A Brave And Startling Truth",
"poem.date": "1/23/2012",
"poem.content": "We, this people, on a small and lonely planet Traveling through casual space Past aloof stars, across the way of indifferent suns To a destination where all signs tell us It is possible and imperative that we learn A brave and startling truth And when we come to it To the day of peacemaking When we release our fingers From fists of hostility And allow the pure air to cool our palms When we come to it When the curtain falls on the minstrel show of hate And faces sooted with scorn are scrubbed clean When battlefields and coliseum No longer rake our unique and particular sons and daughters Up with the bruised and bloody grass To lie in identical plots in foreign soil When the rapacious storming of the churches The screaming racket in the temples have ceased When the pennants are waving gaily When the banners of the world tremble Stoutly in the good, clean breeze When we come to it When we let the rifles fall from our shoulders And children dress their dolls in flags of truce When land mines of death have been removed And the aged can walk into evenings of peace When religious ritual is not perfumed By the incense of burning flesh And childhood dreams are not kicked awake By nightmares of abuse When we come to it Then we will confess that not the Pyramids With their stones set in mysterious perfection Nor the Gardens of Babylon Hanging as eternal beauty In our collective memory Not the Grand Canyon Kindled into delicious color By Western sunsets Nor the Danube, flowing its blue soul into Europe Not the sacred peak of Mount Fuji Stretching to the Rising Sun Neither Father Amazon nor Mother Mississippi who, without favor, Nurture all creatures in the depths and on the shores These are not the only wonders of the world When we come to it We, this people, on this minuscule and kithless globe Who reach daily for the bomb, the blade and the dagger Yet who petition in the dark for tokens of peace We, this people on this mote of matter In whose mouths abide cankerous words Which challenge our very existence Yet out of those same mouths Come songs of such exquisite sweetness That the heart falters in its labor And the body is quieted into awe We, this people, on this small and drifting planet Whose hands can strike with such abandon That in a twinkling, life is sapped from the living Yet those same hands can touch with such healing, irresistible tenderness That the haughty neck is happy to bow And the proud back is glad to bend Out of such chaos, of such contradiction We learn that we are neither devils nor divines When we come to it We, this people, on this wayward, floating body Created on this earth, of this earth Have the power to fashion for this earth A climate where every man and every woman Can live freely without sanctimonious piety Without crippling fear When we come to it We must confess that we are the possible We are the miraculous, the true wonder of this world That is when, and only when We come to it.",
"poem.author": "Maya Angelou"
},
"74": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 74,
"poem.id": 74,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:48:06",
"poem.title": "On The Pulse Of Morning",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "A Rock, A River, A TreeHosts to species long since departed,Mark the mastodon.The dinosaur, who left dry tokensOf their sojourn hereOn our planet floor,Any broad alarm of their of their hastening doomIs lost in the gloom of dust and ages.But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,Come, you may stand upon myBack and face your distant destiny,But seek no haven in my shadow.I will give you no hiding place down here.You, created only a little lower thanThe angels, have crouched too long inThe bruising darkness,Have lain too longFace down in ignorance.Your mouths spelling wordsArmed for slaughter.The rock cries out today, you may stand on me,But do not hide your face.Across the wall of the world,A river sings a beautiful song,Come rest here by my side.Each of you a bordered country,Delicate and strangely made proud,Yet thrusting perpetually under siege.Your armed struggles for profitHave left collars of waste uponMy shore, currents of debris upon my breast.Yet, today I call you to my riverside,If you will study war no more.Come, clad in peace and I will sing the songsThe Creator gave to me when IAnd the tree and stone were one.Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your browAnd when you yet knew you still knew nothing.The river sings and sings on.There is a true yearning to respond toThe singing river and the wise rock.So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew,The African and Native American, the Sioux,The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek,The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheikh,The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher,The privileged, the homeless, the teacher.They hear. They all hearThe speaking of the tree.Today, the first and last of every treeSpeaks to humankind. Come to me, here beside the river.Plant yourself beside me, here beside the river.Each of you, descendant of some passed onTraveller, has been paid for.You, who gave me my first name,You Pawnee, Apache and Seneca,You Cherokee Nation, who rested with me,Then forced on bloody feet,Left me to the employment of other seekers- Desperate for gain, starving for gold.You, the Turk, the Swede, the German, the Scot...You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru,Bought, sold, stolen, arriving on a nightmarePraying for a dream.Here, root yourselves beside me.I am the tree planted by the river,Which will not be moved.I, the rock, I the river, I the treeI am yours- your passages have been paid.Lift up your faces, you have a piercing needFor this bright morning dawning for you.History, despite its wrenching pain,Cannot be unlived, and if faced with courage,Need not be lived again.Lift up your eyes uponThe day breaking for you.Give birth againTo the dream.Women, children, men,Take it into the palms of your hands.Mold it into the shape of your mostPrivate need. Sculpt it intoThe image of your most public self.Lift up your hearts.Each new hour holds new chancesFor new beginnings.Do not be wedded foreverTo fear, yoked eternallyTo brutishness.The horizon leans forward,Offering you space to place new steps of change.Here, on the pulse of this fine dayYou may have the courageTo look up and out upon me,The rock, the river, the tree, your country.No less to Midas than the mendicant.No less to you now than the mastodon then.Here on the pulse of this new dayYou may have the grace to look up and outAnd into your sister's eyes,Into your brother's face, your countryAnd say simplyVery simplyWith hopeGood morning.",
"poem.author": "Maya Angelou"
},
"75": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 75,
"poem.id": 75,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:48:12",
"poem.title": "Momma Welfare Roll",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Maya Angelou"
},
"76": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 76,
"poem.id": 76,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:48:18",
"poem.title": "Weekend Glory",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Maya Angelou"
},
"77": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 77,
"poem.id": 77,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:48:22",
"poem.title": "When You Come",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Maya Angelou"
},
"78": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 78,
"poem.id": 78,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:48:28",
"poem.title": "The Detached",
"poem.date": "6/18/2005",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Maya Angelou"
},
"79": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 79,
"poem.id": 79,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:48:34",
"poem.title": "Insomniac",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Maya Angelou"
},
"80": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 80,
"poem.id": 80,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:48:39",
"poem.title": "Remembrance",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Maya Angelou"
},
"14578": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14578,
"poem.id": 14578,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:36:11",
"poem.title": "Million Man March Poem",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "The night has been long,The wound has been deep,The pit has been dark,And the walls have been steep.Under a dead blue sky on a distant beach,I was dragged by my braids just beyond your reach.Your hands were tied, your mouth was bound,You couldn't even call out my name.You were helpless and so was I,But unfortunately throughout historyYou've worn a badge of shame.I say, the night has been long,The wound has been deep,The pit has been darkAnd the walls have been steep.But today, voices of old spirit soundSpeak to us in words profound,Across the years, across the centuries,Across the oceans, and across the seas.They say, draw near to one another,Save your race.You have been paid for in a distant place,The old ones remind us that slavery's chainsHave paid for our freedom again and again.The night has been long,The pit has been deep,The night has been dark,And the walls have been steep.The hells we have lived through and live through still,Have sharpened our senses and toughened our will.The night has been long.This morning I look through your anguishRight down to your soul.I know that with each other we can make ourselves whole.I look through the posture and past your disguise,And see your love for family in your big brown eyes.I say, clap hands and let's come together in this meeting ground,I say, clap hands and let's deal with each other with love,I say, clap hands and let us get from the low road of indifference,Clap hands, let us come together and reveal our hearts,Let us come together and revise our spirits,Let us come together and cleanse our souls,Clap hands, let's leave the preeningAnd stop impostering our own history.Clap hands, call the spirits back from the ledge,Clap hands, let us invite joy into our conversation,Courtesy into our bedrooms,Gentleness into our kitchen,Care into our nursery.The ancestors remind us, despite the history of painWe are a going-on people who will rise again.And still we rise.",
"poem.author": "Maya Angelou"
},
"14579": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14579,
"poem.id": 14579,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:36:18",
"poem.title": "They Went Home",
"poem.date": "6/18/2005",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Maya Angelou"
},
"14580": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14580,
"poem.id": 14580,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:36:24",
"poem.title": "Passing Time",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Maya Angelou"
},
"14581": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14581,
"poem.id": 14581,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:36:30",
"poem.title": "A Conceit",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Maya Angelou"
},
"14582": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14582,
"poem.id": 14582,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:36:35",
"poem.title": "Refusal",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Maya Angelou"
},
"14583": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14583,
"poem.id": 14583,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:36:40",
"poem.title": "The Lesson",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Maya Angelou"
},
"14584": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14584,
"poem.id": 14584,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:36:44",
"poem.title": "Men",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Maya Angelou"
},
"14585": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14585,
"poem.id": 14585,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:36:50",
"poem.title": "Woman Work",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Maya Angelou"
},
"14586": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14586,
"poem.id": 14586,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:36:52",
"poem.title": "Touched By An Angel",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Maya Angelou"
},
"14587": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14587,
"poem.id": 14587,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:36:56",
"poem.title": "Alone",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Maya Angelou"
},
"14588": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14588,
"poem.id": 14588,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:36:58",
"poem.title": "Caged Bird",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Maya Angelou"
},
"14589": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14589,
"poem.id": 14589,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:37:02",
"poem.title": "Still I Rise",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Maya Angelou"
},
"14590": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14590,
"poem.id": 14590,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:37:04",
"poem.title": "Phenomenal Woman",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Maya Angelou"
}
} |
| 3 | 2018-02-28 20:20:02 | William Shakespeare | {
"81": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 81,
"poem.id": 81,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:48:44",
"poem.title": "The Procreation Sonnets (1 - 17)",
"poem.date": "3/29/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"82": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 82,
"poem.id": 82,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:48:51",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Xlv",
"poem.date": "5/21/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"83": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 83,
"poem.id": 83,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:48:56",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Xxiv",
"poem.date": "5/21/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"84": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 84,
"poem.id": 84,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:49:01",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Lxxxvi",
"poem.date": "5/21/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"85": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 85,
"poem.id": 85,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:49:06",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Lxxvi",
"poem.date": "12/31/2002",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"86": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 86,
"poem.id": 86,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:49:08",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Xci",
"poem.date": "5/21/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"87": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 87,
"poem.id": 87,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:49:12",
"poem.title": "The Rival Poet Sonnets (78 - 86)",
"poem.date": "3/29/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"88": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 88,
"poem.id": 88,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:49:17",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Xlix",
"poem.date": "5/21/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"89": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 89,
"poem.id": 89,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:49:19",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Lvi",
"poem.date": "5/21/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"90": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 90,
"poem.id": 90,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:49:23",
"poem.title": "Sonnets Xiv",
"poem.date": "1/4/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"91": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 91,
"poem.id": 91,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:49:28",
"poem.title": "Speech: \"Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears\"",
"poem.date": "10/22/2015",
"poem.content": "Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears;I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.The evil that men do lives after them;The good is oft interred with their bones;So let it be with Caesar. The noble BrutusHath told you Caesar was ambitious:If it were so, it was a grievous fault,And grievously hath Caesar answer'd it.Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest-For Brutus is an honourable man;So are they all, all honourable men-Come I to speak in Caesar's funeral.He was my friend, faithful and just to me:But Brutus says he was ambitious;And Brutus is an honourable man.He hath brought many captives home to RomeWhose ransoms did the general coffers fill:Did this in Caesar seem ambitious?When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept:Ambition should be made of sterner stuff:Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;And Brutus is an honourable man.You all did see that on the LupercalI thrice presented him a kingly crown,Which he did thrice refuse: was this ambition?Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;And, sure, he is an honourable man.I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke,But here I am to speak what I do know.You all did love him once, not without cause:What cause withholds you then, to mourn for him?O judgment! thou art fled to brutish beasts,And men have lost their reason. Bear with me;My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar,And I must pause till it come back to me.",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"92": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 92,
"poem.id": 92,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:49:32",
"poem.title": "Sonnets Xxv: Let Those Who Are In Favour With Their Stars",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"93": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 93,
"poem.id": 93,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:49:35",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Lvii",
"poem.date": "5/21/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"94": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 94,
"poem.id": 94,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:49:41",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Lviii",
"poem.date": "5/21/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"95": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 95,
"poem.id": 95,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:49:45",
"poem.title": "Macbeth, Act IV, Scene I",
"poem.date": "8/9/2016",
"poem.content": "Three witches, casting a spell ...Round about the cauldron go; In the poison'd entrails throw. Toad, that under cold stone Days and nights hast thirty one Swelter'd venom sleeping got, Boil thou first i' the charmed pot. Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn and cauldron bubble. Fillet of a fenny snake, In the cauldron boil and bake; Eye of newt, and toe of frog, Wool of bat, and tongue of dog, Adder's fork, and blind-worm's sting, Lizard's leg, and howlet's wing, For a charm of powerful trouble, Like a hell-broth boil and bubble. Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn and cauldron bubble.",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"96": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 96,
"poem.id": 96,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:49:50",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Xxxiii",
"poem.date": "5/21/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"97": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 97,
"poem.id": 97,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:49:53",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Xli",
"poem.date": "5/21/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"98": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 98,
"poem.id": 98,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:49:56",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Xl",
"poem.date": "5/21/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"99": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 99,
"poem.id": 99,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:50:00",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Xxxix",
"poem.date": "5/21/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"100": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 100,
"poem.id": 100,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:50:04",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Xii",
"poem.date": "5/21/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"101": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 101,
"poem.id": 101,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:50:08",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Lxxi",
"poem.date": "12/31/2002",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"102": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 102,
"poem.id": 102,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:50:12",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Xcix",
"poem.date": "5/21/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"103": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 103,
"poem.id": 103,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:50:15",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Xc",
"poem.date": "5/21/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"104": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 104,
"poem.id": 104,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:50:18",
"poem.title": "Song of the Witches: \"Double, double toil and trouble\"",
"poem.date": "11/20/2015",
"poem.content": "Double, double toil and trouble;Fire burn and caldron bubble.Fillet of a fenny snake,In the caldron boil and bake;Eye of newt and toe of frog,Wool of bat and tongue of dog,Adder's fork and blind-worm's sting,Lizard's leg and howlet's wing,For a charm of powerful trouble,Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.Double, double toil and trouble;Fire burn and caldron bubble.Cool it with a baboon's blood,Then the charm is firm and good.",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"105": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 105,
"poem.id": 105,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:50:24",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Xxxvi",
"poem.date": "5/21/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"106": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 106,
"poem.id": 106,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:50:28",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Xxxvii",
"poem.date": "5/21/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"107": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 107,
"poem.id": 107,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:50:33",
"poem.title": "Sonnets Iii",
"poem.date": "1/4/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"108": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 108,
"poem.id": 108,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:50:40",
"poem.title": "Some Say That Ever ‘Gainst That Season Comes (Hamlet, Act I, Scene I)",
"poem.date": "6/3/2015",
"poem.content": "Marcellus to Horatio and Bernardo, after seeing the Ghost,Some say that ever ‘gainst that season comesWherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated,This bird of dawning singeth all night long;And then, they say, no spirit dare stir abroad,The nights are wholesome, then no planets strike,No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm,So hallow'd and so gracious is the time.",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"109": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 109,
"poem.id": 109,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:50:42",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Xcv",
"poem.date": "5/21/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"110": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 110,
"poem.id": 110,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:50:47",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Lxxiii",
"poem.date": "12/31/2002",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"111": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 111,
"poem.id": 111,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:50:50",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Lxxxv",
"poem.date": "5/21/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"112": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 112,
"poem.id": 112,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:50:54",
"poem.title": "Sonnets Xix: Devouring Time, Blunt Thou The Lion's Paws",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"113": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 113,
"poem.id": 113,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:51:00",
"poem.title": "Sonnet X",
"poem.date": "5/21/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"114": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 114,
"poem.id": 114,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:51:02",
"poem.title": "Sonnets To The Sundry Notes Of Music",
"poem.date": "3/30/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"115": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 115,
"poem.id": 115,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:51:08",
"poem.title": "Speech: \"Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow\"",
"poem.date": "7/20/2016",
"poem.content": "(from Macbeth, spoken by Macbeth)Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,To the last syllable of recorded time;And all our yesterdays have lighted foolsThe way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,And then is heard no more. It is a taleTold by an idiot, full of sound and fury,Signifying nothing.",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"116": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 116,
"poem.id": 116,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:51:12",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Viii",
"poem.date": "5/21/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"117": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 117,
"poem.id": 117,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:51:16",
"poem.title": "The Canakin Clink Pub Song (From 'Othello')",
"poem.date": "2/4/2015",
"poem.content": "And let me the canakin clink, clink;And let me the canakin clinkA soldier's a man;A life's but a span;Why, then, let a soldier drink.",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"118": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 118,
"poem.id": 118,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:51:18",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Liii",
"poem.date": "5/21/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"119": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 119,
"poem.id": 119,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:51:22",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Lxxix",
"poem.date": "12/31/2002",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"120": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 120,
"poem.id": 120,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:51:28",
"poem.title": "Sonnets Vi",
"poem.date": "1/4/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14631": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14631,
"poem.id": 14631,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:37:10",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Lxv",
"poem.date": "5/21/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14632": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14632,
"poem.id": 14632,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:37:15",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Lxxx",
"poem.date": "5/21/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14633": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14633,
"poem.id": 14633,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:37:19",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Lxxviii",
"poem.date": "5/21/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14634": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14634,
"poem.id": 14634,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:37:24",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Xcviii",
"poem.date": "5/21/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14635": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14635,
"poem.id": 14635,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:37:28",
"poem.title": "Sonnets Xx",
"poem.date": "1/4/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14636": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14636,
"poem.id": 14636,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:37:33",
"poem.title": "From The Rape Of Lucrece",
"poem.date": "4/17/2015",
"poem.content": "Her lily hand her rosy cheek lies under,Cozening the pillow of a lawful kiss;Who, therefore angry, seems to part in sunder,Swelling on either side to want his bliss;Between whose hills her head entombed is; Where like a virtuous monument she lies, To be admired of lewd unhallowed eyes.Without the bed her other fair hand was,On the green coverlet, whose perfect whiteShowed like an April daisy on the grass,With pearly sweat resembling dew of night.Her eyes, like marigolds, had sheathed their light, And canopied in darkness sweetly lay Till they might open to adorn the day.Her hair like golden threads played with her breathO modest wantons, wanton modesty!Showing life's triumph in the map of death,And death's dim look in life's mortality.Each in her sleep themselves so beautify As if between them twain there were no strife, But that life lived in death, and death in life.Her breasts like ivory globes circled with blue,A pair of maiden worlds unconquerèd,Save of their lord no bearing yoke they knew,And him by oath they truly honourèd.These worlds in Tarquin new ambition bred, Who like a foul usurper went about From this fair throne to heave the owner out.What could he see but mightily he noted?What did he note but strongly he desired?What he beheld, on that he firmly doted,And in his will his willful eye he tired.With more than admiration he admired Her azure veins, her alabaster skin, Her coral lips, her snow-white dimpled chin.As the grim lion fawneth o'er his preySharp hunger by the conquest satisfied,So o'er this sleeping soul doth Tarquin stay,His rage of lust by gazing qualified;Slacked, not suppressed; for, standing by her side, His eye, which late this mutiny restrains, Unto a greater uproar tempts his veins.And they, like straggling slaves for pillage fighting,Obdurate vassals fell exploits effecting.In bloody death and ravishment delighting,Nor children's tears nor mothers' groans respecting,Swell in their pride, the onset still expecting. Anon his beating heart, alarum striking, Gives the hot charge and bids them do their liking.His drumming heart cheers up his burning eye,His eye commends the leading to his hand;His hand, as proud of such a dignity,Smoking with pride, marched on to make his standOn her bare breast, the heart of all her land, Whose ranks of blue veins, as his hand did scale, Left their round turrets destitute and pale.They, mustering to the quiet cabinetWhere their dear governess and lady lies,Do tell her she is dreadfully besetAnd fright her with confusion of their cries.She, much amazed, breaks ope her locked-up eyes, Who, peeping forth this tumult to behold, Are by his flaming torch dimmed and controlled.Imagine her as one in dead of nightFrom forth dull sleep by dreadful fancy waking,That thinks she hath beheld some ghastly sprite,Whose grim aspect sets every joint a-shaking.What terror ‘tis! but she, in worser taking, From sleep disturbèd, heedfully doth view The sight which makes supposèd terror true.Wrapped and confounded in a thousand fears,Like to a new-killed bird she trembling lies.She dares not look; yet, winking, there appearsQuick-shifting antics ugly in her eyes.Such shadows are the weak brain's forgeries, Who, angry that the eyes fly from their lights, In darkness daunts them with more dreadful sights.His hand, that yet remains upon her breast(Rude ram, to batter such an ivory wall!)May feel her heart (poor citizen) distressed,Wounding itself to death, rise up and fall,Beating her bulk, that his hand shakes withal. This moves in him more rage and lesser pity, To make the breach and enter this sweet city.",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14637": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14637,
"poem.id": 14637,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:37:38",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Vi",
"poem.date": "5/21/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14638": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14638,
"poem.id": 14638,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:37:40",
"poem.title": "Sonnets Xvi",
"poem.date": "1/4/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14639": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14639,
"poem.id": 14639,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:37:44",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Lxxxiii",
"poem.date": "5/21/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14640": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14640,
"poem.id": 14640,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:37:50",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Xvii",
"poem.date": "5/21/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14641": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14641,
"poem.id": 14641,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:37:53",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Xi",
"poem.date": "5/21/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14642": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14642,
"poem.id": 14642,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:38:00",
"poem.title": "Where The Bee Sucks (from The Tempest)",
"poem.date": "6/10/2015",
"poem.content": "WHERE the bee sucks, there suck I: In a cowslip's bell I lie; There I couch when owls do cry. On the bat's back I do fly. After summer merrily: Merrily, merrily, shall I live now Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14643": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14643,
"poem.id": 14643,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:38:05",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Cxxxiv",
"poem.date": "5/18/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14644": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14644,
"poem.id": 14644,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:38:10",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Xciii",
"poem.date": "5/21/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14645": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14645,
"poem.id": 14645,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:38:14",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Xvi",
"poem.date": "5/21/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14646": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14646,
"poem.id": 14646,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:38:20",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Xlvi",
"poem.date": "5/21/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14647": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14647,
"poem.id": 14647,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:38:25",
"poem.title": "Sonnets Liii: What Is Your Substance, Whereof Are You Made",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14648": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14648,
"poem.id": 14648,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:38:31",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Xlii",
"poem.date": "5/21/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14649": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14649,
"poem.id": 14649,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:38:35",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Xxiii",
"poem.date": "5/21/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14650": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14650,
"poem.id": 14650,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:38:41",
"poem.title": "Sonnet V: Those Hours, That With Gentle Work Did Frame",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14651": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14651,
"poem.id": 14651,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:38:44",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Xxii",
"poem.date": "5/21/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14652": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14652,
"poem.id": 14652,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:38:46",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Lxxxix",
"poem.date": "5/21/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14653": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14653,
"poem.id": 14653,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:38:51",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Iv: Unthrifty Loveliness, Why Dost Thou Spend",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14654": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14654,
"poem.id": 14654,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:38:57",
"poem.title": "Sonnets Xv",
"poem.date": "1/4/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14655": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14655,
"poem.id": 14655,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:38:59",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Lxx",
"poem.date": "12/31/2002",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14656": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14656,
"poem.id": 14656,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:39:05",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Xiii",
"poem.date": "5/21/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14657": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14657,
"poem.id": 14657,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:39:09",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Lxxxvii",
"poem.date": "5/21/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14658": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14658,
"poem.id": 14658,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:39:11",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Xliii",
"poem.date": "5/21/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14659": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14659,
"poem.id": 14659,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:39:16",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Lxxxviii",
"poem.date": "5/21/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14660": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14660,
"poem.id": 14660,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:39:22",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Xlviii",
"poem.date": "5/21/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14661": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14661,
"poem.id": 14661,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:39:25",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Xcvi",
"poem.date": "5/21/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14662": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14662,
"poem.id": 14662,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:39:28",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Xiv",
"poem.date": "5/21/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14663": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14663,
"poem.id": 14663,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:39:33",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Lix",
"poem.date": "5/21/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14664": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14664,
"poem.id": 14664,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:39:38",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Lxxii",
"poem.date": "12/31/2002",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14665": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14665,
"poem.id": 14665,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:39:45",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Cxxxix",
"poem.date": "5/18/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14666": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14666,
"poem.id": 14666,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:39:52",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 7: “lo In The Orient When The Gracious Light…”",
"poem.date": "3/30/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14667": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14667,
"poem.id": 14667,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:39:55",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Cxxxiii",
"poem.date": "5/18/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14668": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14668,
"poem.id": 14668,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:40:02",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Xxxv",
"poem.date": "5/21/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14669": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14669,
"poem.id": 14669,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:40:07",
"poem.title": "Sonnets Xiii",
"poem.date": "1/4/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14670": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14670,
"poem.id": 14670,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:40:10",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Lv",
"poem.date": "5/21/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14671": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14671,
"poem.id": 14671,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:40:16",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Lxxxi",
"poem.date": "5/21/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14672": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14672,
"poem.id": 14672,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:40:21",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Xliv",
"poem.date": "5/21/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14673": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14673,
"poem.id": 14673,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:40:24",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Lxxiv",
"poem.date": "12/31/2002",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14674": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14674,
"poem.id": 14674,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:40:26",
"poem.title": "Sonnets Xxxiii: Full Many A Glorious Morning Have I Seen",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14675": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14675,
"poem.id": 14675,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:40:30",
"poem.title": "Sonnets Iv",
"poem.date": "1/4/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14676": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14676,
"poem.id": 14676,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:40:35",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Lxxxiv",
"poem.date": "5/21/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14677": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14677,
"poem.id": 14677,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:40:40",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Xlvii",
"poem.date": "5/21/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14678": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14678,
"poem.id": 14678,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:40:45",
"poem.title": "William Shakespeare Epitaph",
"poem.date": "10/20/2015",
"poem.content": "Good frend for Iesvs sake forebeare,To digg the dvst encloased heare.Bleste be Middle English the.svg man Middle English that.svg spares thes stones,And cvrst be he Middle English that.svg moves my bones.In modern spelling:Good friend for Jesus sake forbear,To dig the dust enclosed here.Blessed be the man that spares these stones,And cursed be he that moves my bones.",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14679": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14679,
"poem.id": 14679,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:40:52",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Xxvi",
"poem.date": "5/21/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14680": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14680,
"poem.id": 14680,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:40:57",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Cxxxv",
"poem.date": "5/18/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14681": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14681,
"poem.id": 14681,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:40:59",
"poem.title": "Sonnets Xi",
"poem.date": "1/4/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14682": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14682,
"poem.id": 14682,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:41:03",
"poem.title": "Sonnets Xviii",
"poem.date": "1/4/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14683": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14683,
"poem.id": 14683,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:41:08",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Lxii",
"poem.date": "5/21/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14684": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14684,
"poem.id": 14684,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:41:12",
"poem.title": "Sonnets Viii",
"poem.date": "1/4/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14685": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14685,
"poem.id": 14685,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:41:15",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Xcvii",
"poem.date": "5/21/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14686": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14686,
"poem.id": 14686,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:41:22",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Xxviii",
"poem.date": "5/21/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14687": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14687,
"poem.id": 14687,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:41:25",
"poem.title": "Sonnets Xix",
"poem.date": "1/4/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14688": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14688,
"poem.id": 14688,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:41:31",
"poem.title": "Sonnets Cxlvi: Poor Soul, The Centre Of My Sinful Earth",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14689": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14689,
"poem.id": 14689,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:41:33",
"poem.title": "The Passionate Pilgrim",
"poem.date": "3/29/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14690": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14690,
"poem.id": 14690,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:41:39",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Lx",
"poem.date": "5/21/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14691": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14691,
"poem.id": 14691,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:41:42",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Cxxxviii",
"poem.date": "5/18/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14692": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14692,
"poem.id": 14692,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:41:45",
"poem.title": "Sonnets Ii",
"poem.date": "1/4/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14693": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14693,
"poem.id": 14693,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:41:51",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Lxix",
"poem.date": "5/21/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14694": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14694,
"poem.id": 14694,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:41:53",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 38:",
"poem.date": "3/30/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14695": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14695,
"poem.id": 14695,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:41:57",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Xxi",
"poem.date": "5/21/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14696": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14696,
"poem.id": 14696,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:42:03",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Lxi",
"poem.date": "5/21/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14697": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14697,
"poem.id": 14697,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:42:10",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Ix",
"poem.date": "5/21/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14698": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14698,
"poem.id": 14698,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:42:14",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Xx",
"poem.date": "12/31/2002",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14699": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14699,
"poem.id": 14699,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:42:16",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 84: Who Is It That Says Most, Which Can Say More",
"poem.date": "3/30/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14700": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14700,
"poem.id": 14700,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:42:20",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Xxxi",
"poem.date": "5/21/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14701": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14701,
"poem.id": 14701,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:42:26",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Cxxxvi",
"poem.date": "5/18/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14702": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14702,
"poem.id": 14702,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:42:30",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Cxxxii",
"poem.date": "5/18/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14703": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14703,
"poem.id": 14703,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:42:34",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Lxxvii",
"poem.date": "12/31/2002",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14704": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14704,
"poem.id": 14704,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:42:39",
"poem.title": "Sonnets Xvii",
"poem.date": "1/4/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14705": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14705,
"poem.id": 14705,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:42:46",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Xix: Devouring Time, Blunt Thou The Lion's Paws",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14706": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14706,
"poem.id": 14706,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:42:50",
"poem.title": "Antony and Cleopatra, Act II, Scene II [The barge she sat in, like a burnish'd throne]",
"poem.date": "3/23/2016",
"poem.content": "Enobarbus describes Queen CleopatraEnobarbus: I will tell you.The barge she sat in, like a burnish'd throne,Burned on the water: the poop was beaten gold;Purple the sails, and so perfumed thatThe winds were lovesick with them; the oars were silver,Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke, and madeThe water which they beat to follow faster,As amorous of their strokes. For her own person,It beggar'd all description: she did lieIn her pavilion, cloth-of-gold of tissue,O'erpicturing that Venus where we seeThe fancy outwork nature: on each side herStood pretty dimpled boys, like smiling Cupids,With divers-colour'd fans, whose wind did seemTo glow the delicate cheeks which they did cool,And what they undid did.Agrippa: O, rare for Antony.Enobarbus: Her gentlewomen, like the Nereides,So many mermaids, tended her i' th' eyes,And made their bends adornings. At the helmA seeming mermaid steers: the silken tackleSwell with the touches of those flower-soft handsThat yarely frame the office. From the bargeA strange invisible perfume hits the senseOf the adjacent wharfs. The city castHer people out upon her; and Antony,Enthroned i' th' marketplace, did sit alone,Whistling to th' air; which, but for vacancy,Had gone to gaze on Cleopatra too,And made a gap in nature.Agrippa: Rare Egyptian!Enobarbus: Upon her landing, Antony sent to her,Invited her to supper. She repliedIt should be better he became her guest;Which she entreated. Our courteous Antony,Whom ne'er the word of \"No\" woman heard speak,Being barbered ten times o'er, goes to the feast,And for his ordinary, pays his heartFor what his eyes eat only.Agrippa: Royal wench!She made great Caesar lay his sword to bed;He plowed her, and she cropped.Enobarbus: I saw her onceHop forty paces through the public street;And having lost her breath, she spoke, and panted,That she did make defect perfection,And, breathless, pow'r breathe forth.Maecenas: Now Antony must leave her utterly.Enobarbus: Never; He will not:Age cannot wither her, nor custom staleHer infinite variety. Other women cloyThe appetites they feed, but she makes hungryWhere most she satisfies; for vilest thingsBecome themselves in her, that the holy priestsBless her when she is riggish.",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14707": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14707,
"poem.id": 14707,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:42:54",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Cxxxvii",
"poem.date": "5/18/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14708": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14708,
"poem.id": 14708,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:43:00",
"poem.title": "Sonnets I",
"poem.date": "1/4/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14709": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14709,
"poem.id": 14709,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:43:06",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 70:That Thou Art Blamed Shall Not Be Thy Defect…",
"poem.date": "3/30/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14710": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14710,
"poem.id": 14710,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:43:11",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Xxxviii: How Can My Muse Want Subject To Invent",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14711": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14711,
"poem.id": 14711,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:43:17",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Xxvii",
"poem.date": "5/21/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14712": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14712,
"poem.id": 14712,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:43:24",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Vii",
"poem.date": "5/21/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14713": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14713,
"poem.id": 14713,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:43:30",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Xxxii: If Thou Survive My Well-Contented Day",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14714": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14714,
"poem.id": 14714,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:43:37",
"poem.title": "Sonnet L",
"poem.date": "5/21/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14715": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14715,
"poem.id": 14715,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:43:40",
"poem.title": "Now The Hungry Lion Roars",
"poem.date": "3/2/2015",
"poem.content": "From \"A Midsummer-Night's Dream,\" Act V. Scene 2PUCK sings: NOW the hungry lion roars, And the wolf behowls the moon; Whilst the heavy ploughman snores, All with weary task fordone. Now the wasted brands do glow, Whilst the screech-owl, screeching loud, Puts the wretch that lies in woe In remembrance of a shroud. Now it is the time of night, That the graves, all gaping wide, Every one lets forth his sprite, In the churchway paths to glide: And we fairies, that do run By the triple Hecate's team, From the presence of the sun, Following darkness like a dream, Now are frolic; not a mouse Shall disturb this hallowed house: I am sent with broom before To sweep the dust behind the door.",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14716": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14716,
"poem.id": 14716,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:43:45",
"poem.title": "Sonnets Cx: Alas, 'Tis True I Have Gone Here And There",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14717": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14717,
"poem.id": 14717,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:43:52",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Ii: When Forty Winters Shall Besiege Thy Brow",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14718": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14718,
"poem.id": 14718,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:43:55",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Iii: Look In Thy Glass, And Tell The Face Thou Viewest",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14719": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14719,
"poem.id": 14719,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:43:58",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Xxx: When To The Sessions Of Sweet Silent Thought",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14720": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14720,
"poem.id": 14720,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:44:04",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Lxiii",
"poem.date": "5/21/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14721": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14721,
"poem.id": 14721,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:44:11",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Xxxiv",
"poem.date": "5/21/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14722": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14722,
"poem.id": 14722,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:44:18",
"poem.title": "Sonnet I: From Fairest Creatures We Desire Increase",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14723": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14723,
"poem.id": 14723,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:44:22",
"poem.title": "Sonnets Lx: Like As The Waves Make Towards The Pebbl'D Shor",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14724": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14724,
"poem.id": 14724,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:44:27",
"poem.title": "Sonnets Ix",
"poem.date": "1/4/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14725": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14725,
"poem.id": 14725,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:44:34",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Li",
"poem.date": "5/21/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14726": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14726,
"poem.id": 14726,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:44:41",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Xv: When I Consider Everything That Grows",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14727": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14727,
"poem.id": 14727,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:44:45",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Lxxxii",
"poem.date": "5/21/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14728": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14728,
"poem.id": 14728,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:44:47",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 63: Against My Love Shall Be As I Am Now",
"poem.date": "3/30/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14729": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14729,
"poem.id": 14729,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:44:54",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Xxix: When, In Disgrace With Fortune And Men's Eyes",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14730": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14730,
"poem.id": 14730,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:44:57",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Cxlix",
"poem.date": "5/18/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14731": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14731,
"poem.id": 14731,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:45:00",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Cxlviii",
"poem.date": "5/18/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14732": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14732,
"poem.id": 14732,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:45:06",
"poem.title": "St. Crispin’s Day Speech: From Henry V",
"poem.date": "3/29/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14733": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14733,
"poem.id": 14733,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:45:13",
"poem.title": "Sonnets Xxix: When, In Disgrace With Fortune And Men's Eyes",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14734": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14734,
"poem.id": 14734,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:45:18",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Cxiii",
"poem.date": "5/18/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14735": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14735,
"poem.id": 14735,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:45:24",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 69: Those Parts Of Thee That The World's Eye Doth View",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14736": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14736,
"poem.id": 14736,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:45:27",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Lxxv",
"poem.date": "12/31/2002",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14737": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14737,
"poem.id": 14737,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:45:34",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 2:",
"poem.date": "3/30/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14738": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14738,
"poem.id": 14738,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:45:37",
"poem.title": "Sonnets Vii",
"poem.date": "1/4/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14739": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14739,
"poem.id": 14739,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:45:42",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Lxvi",
"poem.date": "5/21/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14740": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14740,
"poem.id": 14740,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:45:45",
"poem.title": "Sonnets Xxx: When To The Sessions Of Sweet Silent Thought",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14741": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14741,
"poem.id": 14741,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:45:48",
"poem.title": "Sonnets Xciv: They That Have Power To Hurt And Will Do None",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14742": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14742,
"poem.id": 14742,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:45:52",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Xciv: They That Have Power To Hurt And Will Do None",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14743": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14743,
"poem.id": 14743,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:45:58",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Cxxvi",
"poem.date": "5/18/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14744": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14744,
"poem.id": 14744,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:46:02",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Cxvii",
"poem.date": "5/18/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14745": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14745,
"poem.id": 14745,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:46:07",
"poem.title": "The Dark Lady Sonnets (127 - 154)",
"poem.date": "3/29/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14746": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14746,
"poem.id": 14746,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:46:13",
"poem.title": "Sonnets Xii",
"poem.date": "1/4/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14747": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14747,
"poem.id": 14747,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:46:16",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Cxxxi",
"poem.date": "5/18/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14748": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14748,
"poem.id": 14748,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:46:21",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 61: Is It Thy Will Thy Image Should Keep Open",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14749": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14749,
"poem.id": 14749,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:46:27",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Cxliv",
"poem.date": "5/18/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14750": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14750,
"poem.id": 14750,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:46:32",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Lii",
"poem.date": "5/21/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14751": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14751,
"poem.id": 14751,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:46:37",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Cxxiii",
"poem.date": "5/18/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14752": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14752,
"poem.id": 14752,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:46:39",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 93: So Shall I Live, Supposing Thou Art True",
"poem.date": "3/30/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14753": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14753,
"poem.id": 14753,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:46:45",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Cxxv",
"poem.date": "5/18/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14754": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14754,
"poem.id": 14754,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:46:51",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Cxi",
"poem.date": "5/18/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14755": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14755,
"poem.id": 14755,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:46:53",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 72: O, Lest The World Should Task You To Recite",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14756": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14756,
"poem.id": 14756,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:46:58",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Cxiv",
"poem.date": "5/18/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14757": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14757,
"poem.id": 14757,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:47:01",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Clii",
"poem.date": "5/18/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14758": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14758,
"poem.id": 14758,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:47:07",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Cxxix",
"poem.date": "5/18/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14759": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14759,
"poem.id": 14759,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:47:09",
"poem.title": "Helen's Soliloqy (All's Well That Ends Well)",
"poem.date": "3/3/2015",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14760": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14760,
"poem.id": 14760,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:47:12",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 83: I Never Saw That You Did Painting Need",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14761": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14761,
"poem.id": 14761,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:47:15",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 67: Ah, Wherefore With Infection Should He Live",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14762": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14762,
"poem.id": 14762,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:47:18",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 59: If There Be Nothing New, But That Which Is",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14763": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14763,
"poem.id": 14763,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:47:23",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 92: But Do Thy Worst To Steal Thyself Away",
"poem.date": "3/30/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14764": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14764,
"poem.id": 14764,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:47:25",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 56: Sweet Love, Renew Thy Force, Be It Not Said",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14765": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14765,
"poem.id": 14765,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:47:31",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 82: I Grant Thou Wert Not Married To My Muse",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14766": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14766,
"poem.id": 14766,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:47:36",
"poem.title": "Sonnets X",
"poem.date": "1/4/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14767": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14767,
"poem.id": 14767,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:47:39",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Cvii",
"poem.date": "5/18/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14768": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14768,
"poem.id": 14768,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:47:42",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Cliii",
"poem.date": "5/18/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14769": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14769,
"poem.id": 14769,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:47:47",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Cxi: O, For My Sake Do You With Fortune Chide",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14770": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14770,
"poem.id": 14770,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:47:52",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 15:",
"poem.date": "3/30/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14771": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14771,
"poem.id": 14771,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:47:55",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 146:",
"poem.date": "3/30/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14772": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14772,
"poem.id": 14772,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:47:58",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 7: Lo, In The Orient When The Gracious Light",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14773": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14773,
"poem.id": 14773,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:48:04",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 53: What Is Your Substance, Whereof Are You Made",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14774": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14774,
"poem.id": 14774,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:48:11",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Cxx",
"poem.date": "5/18/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14775": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14775,
"poem.id": 14775,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:48:17",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 74: But Be Contented When That Fell Arrest",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14776": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14776,
"poem.id": 14776,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:48:23",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Cvi",
"poem.date": "5/18/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14777": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14777,
"poem.id": 14777,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:48:27",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Cli",
"poem.date": "5/18/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14778": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14778,
"poem.id": 14778,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:48:31",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 77: Thy Glass Will Show Thee How Thy Beauties Wear",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14779": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14779,
"poem.id": 14779,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:48:36",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 24: “mine Eye Hath Played The Painter And Hath Stelled…”",
"poem.date": "3/30/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14780": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14780,
"poem.id": 14780,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:48:42",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 44: If The Dull Substance Of My Flesh Were Thought",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14781": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14781,
"poem.id": 14781,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:48:46",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 80: O, How I Faint When I Of You Do Write",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14782": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14782,
"poem.id": 14782,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:48:48",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 14: “not From The Stars Do I My Judgement Pluck…”",
"poem.date": "3/30/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14783": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14783,
"poem.id": 14783,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:48:55",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 62: Sin Of Self-Love Possesseth All Mine Eye",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14784": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14784,
"poem.id": 14784,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:48:57",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Cxii",
"poem.date": "5/18/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14785": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14785,
"poem.id": 14785,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:49:03",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Cxxviii",
"poem.date": "5/18/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14786": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14786,
"poem.id": 14786,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:49:08",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 45: The Other Two, Slight Air And Purging Fire",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14787": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14787,
"poem.id": 14787,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:49:13",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Civ",
"poem.date": "5/18/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14788": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14788,
"poem.id": 14788,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:49:16",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Cxlvii",
"poem.date": "5/18/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14789": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14789,
"poem.id": 14789,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:49:19",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 48: How Careful Was I, When I Took My Way",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14790": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14790,
"poem.id": 14790,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:49:26",
"poem.title": "Twelve O'Clock - Fairy Time",
"poem.date": "3/29/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14791": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14791,
"poem.id": 14791,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:49:31",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Cxxii",
"poem.date": "5/18/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14792": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14792,
"poem.id": 14792,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:49:37",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 70: That Thou Art Blamed Shall Not Be Thy Defect",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14793": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14793,
"poem.id": 14793,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:49:43",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 26: Lord Of My Love, To Whom In Vassalage…",
"poem.date": "3/30/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14794": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14794,
"poem.id": 14794,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:49:47",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Cx",
"poem.date": "5/18/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14795": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14795,
"poem.id": 14795,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:49:52",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 32: If Thou Survive My Well-Contented Day",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14796": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14796,
"poem.id": 14796,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:49:55",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 38: How Can My Muse Want Subject To Invent",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14797": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14797,
"poem.id": 14797,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:50:02",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Cxli",
"poem.date": "5/18/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14798": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14798,
"poem.id": 14798,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:50:06",
"poem.title": "Sonnets Cxvi: Let Me Not To The Marriage Of True Minds",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14799": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14799,
"poem.id": 14799,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:50:08",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 6: Then Let Not Winter's Ragged Hand Deface",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14800": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14800,
"poem.id": 14800,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:50:15",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Cxviii",
"poem.date": "5/18/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14801": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14801,
"poem.id": 14801,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:50:20",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Cv",
"poem.date": "5/18/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14802": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14802,
"poem.id": 14802,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:50:23",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Cxvi",
"poem.date": "5/18/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14803": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14803,
"poem.id": 14803,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:50:27",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 81: Or I Shall Live Your Epitaph To Make",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14804": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14804,
"poem.id": 14804,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:50:31",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Ciii",
"poem.date": "5/18/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14805": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14805,
"poem.id": 14805,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:50:38",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Cxlii",
"poem.date": "5/18/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14806": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14806,
"poem.id": 14806,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:50:43",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 36: Let Me Confess That We Two Must Be Twain",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14807": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14807,
"poem.id": 14807,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:50:48",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Cxliii",
"poem.date": "5/18/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14808": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14808,
"poem.id": 14808,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:50:52",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 107:",
"poem.date": "3/30/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14809": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14809,
"poem.id": 14809,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:50:55",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 135: Whoever Hath Her Wish, Thou Hast Thy Will",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14810": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14810,
"poem.id": 14810,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:50:59",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Cl",
"poem.date": "5/18/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14811": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14811,
"poem.id": 14811,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:51:05",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 51: Thus Can My Love Excuse The Slow Offence",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14812": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14812,
"poem.id": 14812,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:51:08",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Cix",
"poem.date": "5/18/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14813": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14813,
"poem.id": 14813,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:51:13",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 63: Against My Love Shall Be, As I Am Now",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14814": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14814,
"poem.id": 14814,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:51:18",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 34: Why Didst Thou Promise Such A Beauteous Day",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14815": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14815,
"poem.id": 14815,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:51:23",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Cvii: Not Mine Own Fears, Nor The Prophetic Soul",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14816": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14816,
"poem.id": 14816,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:51:27",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 76: Why Is My Verse So Barren Of New Pride?",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14817": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14817,
"poem.id": 14817,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:51:29",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Cxv",
"poem.date": "5/18/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14818": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14818,
"poem.id": 14818,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:51:35",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 78: So Oft Have I Invoked Thee For My Muse",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14819": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14819,
"poem.id": 14819,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:51:39",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Cviii",
"poem.date": "5/18/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14820": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14820,
"poem.id": 14820,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:51:41",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Cxlvi",
"poem.date": "12/31/2002",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14821": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14821,
"poem.id": 14821,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:51:47",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Cxix",
"poem.date": "5/18/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14822": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14822,
"poem.id": 14822,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:51:51",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Cxxi",
"poem.date": "5/18/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14823": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14823,
"poem.id": 14823,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:51:56",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 5: Those Hours, That With Gentle Work Did Frame",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14824": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14824,
"poem.id": 14824,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:51:59",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 37: As A Decrepit Father Takes Delight",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14825": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14825,
"poem.id": 14825,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:52:03",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Cxlv",
"poem.date": "5/18/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14826": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14826,
"poem.id": 14826,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:52:08",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 9: Is It For Fear To Wet A Widow's Eye",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14827": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14827,
"poem.id": 14827,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:52:13",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 39: O, How Thy Worth With Manners May I Sing",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14828": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14828,
"poem.id": 14828,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:52:19",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 85: My Tongue-Tied Muse In Manners Holds Her Still",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14829": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14829,
"poem.id": 14829,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:52:24",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 134: So, Now I Have Confessed That He Is Thine",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14830": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14830,
"poem.id": 14830,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:52:29",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 54: O, How Much More Doth Beauty Beauteous Seem",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14831": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14831,
"poem.id": 14831,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:52:36",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 84: Who Is It That Says Most, Which Can Say More",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14832": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14832,
"poem.id": 14832,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:52:39",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 52: So Am I As The Rich Whose BlessÈD Key",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14833": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14833,
"poem.id": 14833,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:52:46",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 98: From You Have I Been Absent In The Spring",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14834": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14834,
"poem.id": 14834,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:52:49",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 46: Mine Eye And Heart Are At A Mortal War",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14835": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14835,
"poem.id": 14835,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:52:53",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 99: The Forward Violet Thus Did I Chide",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14836": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14836,
"poem.id": 14836,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:52:55",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 4: Unthrifty Loveliness, Why Dost Thou Spend",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14837": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14837,
"poem.id": 14837,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:52:58",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Ci",
"poem.date": "5/18/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14838": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14838,
"poem.id": 14838,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:53:01",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Cliv",
"poem.date": "5/18/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14839": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14839,
"poem.id": 14839,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:53:06",
"poem.title": "Sonnet C",
"poem.date": "5/18/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14840": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14840,
"poem.id": 14840,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:53:09",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Cii",
"poem.date": "5/18/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14841": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14841,
"poem.id": 14841,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:53:11",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 24: Mine Eye Hath Played The Painter And Hath Stelled",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14842": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14842,
"poem.id": 14842,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:53:14",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 79: Whilst I Alone Did Call Upon Thy Aid",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14843": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14843,
"poem.id": 14843,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:53:17",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 86: Was It The Proud Full Sail Of His Great Verse",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14844": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14844,
"poem.id": 14844,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:53:22",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 145:",
"poem.date": "3/30/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14845": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14845,
"poem.id": 14845,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:53:28",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 47: Betwixt Mine Eye And Heart A League Is Took",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14846": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14846,
"poem.id": 14846,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:53:33",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 58: That God Forbid, That Made Me First Your Slave",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14847": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14847,
"poem.id": 14847,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:53:38",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 139: O, Call Not Me To Justify The Wrong",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14848": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14848,
"poem.id": 14848,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:53:41",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Cxl",
"poem.date": "5/18/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14849": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14849,
"poem.id": 14849,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:53:44",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 35: No More Be Grieved At That Which Thou Hast Done",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14850": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14850,
"poem.id": 14850,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:53:47",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 89: Say That Thou Didst Forsake Me For Some Fault",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14851": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14851,
"poem.id": 14851,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:53:49",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 137: Thou Blind Fool, Love, What Dost Thou To Mine Eyes",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14852": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14852,
"poem.id": 14852,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:53:55",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 43: When Most I Wink, Then Do Mine Eyes Best See",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14853": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14853,
"poem.id": 14853,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:53:58",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 22: My Glass Shall Not Persuade Me I Am Old",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14854": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14854,
"poem.id": 14854,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:54:04",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 65: Since Brass, Nor Stone, Nor Earth, Nor Boundless Sea",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14855": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14855,
"poem.id": 14855,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:54:10",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 21: So Is It Not With Me As With That Muse",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14856": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14856,
"poem.id": 14856,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:54:16",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 136: If Thy Soul Check Thee That I Come So Near",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14857": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14857,
"poem.id": 14857,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:54:19",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 55: Not Marble, Nor The Gilded Monuments",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14858": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14858,
"poem.id": 14858,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:54:25",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 97: How Like A Winter Hath My Absence Been",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14859": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14859,
"poem.id": 14859,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:54:30",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Xviii: Shall I Compare Thee To A Summer's Day?",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14860": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14860,
"poem.id": 14860,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:54:37",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 96: Some Say Thy Fault Is Youth, Some Wantonness",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14861": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14861,
"poem.id": 14861,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:54:40",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 131: Thou Art As Tyrannous, So As Thou Art",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14862": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14862,
"poem.id": 14862,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:54:43",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 33: Full Many A Glorious Morning Have I Seen",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14863": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14863,
"poem.id": 14863,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:54:48",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 91: Some Glory In Their Birth, Some In Their Skill",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14864": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14864,
"poem.id": 14864,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:54:53",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 14: Not From The Stars Do I My Judgement Pluck",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14865": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14865,
"poem.id": 14865,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:54:56",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 41: Those Pretty Wrongs That Liberty Commits",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14866": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14866,
"poem.id": 14866,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:55:00",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 125: Were'T Aught To Me I Bore The Canopy",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14867": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14867,
"poem.id": 14867,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:55:06",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 42: That Thou Hast Her, It Is Not All My Grief",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14868": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14868,
"poem.id": 14868,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:55:10",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 121:Tis Better To Be Vile Than Vile Esteemed",
"poem.date": "3/30/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14869": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14869,
"poem.id": 14869,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:55:15",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 64: When I Have Seen By Time's Fell Hand Defaced",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14870": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14870,
"poem.id": 14870,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:55:18",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 13: O, That You Were Your Self! But, Love, You Are",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14871": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14871,
"poem.id": 14871,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:55:20",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 122: Thy Gift, Thy Tables, Are Within My Brain",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14872": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14872,
"poem.id": 14872,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:55:23",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 93: So Shall I Live, Supposing Thou Art True",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14873": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14873,
"poem.id": 14873,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:55:29",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 150: O From What Power Hast Thou This Powerful Might",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14874": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14874,
"poem.id": 14874,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:55:34",
"poem.title": "The Phoenix And The Turtle",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14875": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14875,
"poem.id": 14875,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:55:38",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 88: When Thou Shalt Be Disposed To Set Me Light",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14876": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14876,
"poem.id": 14876,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:55:44",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 133: Beshrew That Heart That Makes My Heart To Groan",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14877": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14877,
"poem.id": 14877,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:55:46",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 148: O Me! What Eyes Hath Love Put In My Head",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14878": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14878,
"poem.id": 14878,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:55:52",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 149: Canst Thou, O Cruel, Say I Love Thee Not",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14879": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14879,
"poem.id": 14879,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:55:57",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 90: Then Hate Me When Thou Wilt; If Ever, Now",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14880": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14880,
"poem.id": 14880,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:56:01",
"poem.title": "Sonnets Xviii: Shall I Compare Thee To A Summer's Day?",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14881": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14881,
"poem.id": 14881,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:56:06",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 95: How Sweet And Lovely Dost Thou Make The Shame",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14882": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14882,
"poem.id": 14882,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:56:12",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 154: The Little Love-God Lying Once Asleep",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14883": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14883,
"poem.id": 14883,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:56:17",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 140: Be Wise As Thou Art Cruel; Do Not Press",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14884": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14884,
"poem.id": 14884,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:56:23",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 143: Lo, As A Careful Huswife Runs To Catch",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14885": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14885,
"poem.id": 14885,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:56:29",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 49: Against That Time, If Ever That Time Come",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14886": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14886,
"poem.id": 14886,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:56:35",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 66: Tired With All These, For Restful Death I Cry",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14887": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14887,
"poem.id": 14887,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:56:40",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 126: O Thou, My Lovely Boy, Who In Thy Power",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14888": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14888,
"poem.id": 14888,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:56:46",
"poem.title": "Now, My Co-Mates And Brothers In Exile",
"poem.date": "3/29/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14889": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14889,
"poem.id": 14889,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:56:51",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 16: But Wherefore Do Not You A Mightier Way",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14890": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14890,
"poem.id": 14890,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:56:56",
"poem.title": "When To The Sessions Of Sweet Silent Thought (Sonnet 30)",
"poem.date": "1/20/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14891": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14891,
"poem.id": 14891,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:56:58",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 2: When Forty Winters Shall Besiege Thy Brow",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14892": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14892,
"poem.id": 14892,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:57:04",
"poem.title": "Take, O Take Those Lips Away",
"poem.date": "1/4/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14893": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14893,
"poem.id": 14893,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:57:08",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 107: Not Mine Own Fears, Nor The Prophetic Soul",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14894": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14894,
"poem.id": 14894,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:57:11",
"poem.title": "The Blossom",
"poem.date": "1/4/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14895": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14895,
"poem.id": 14895,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:57:14",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 73: That Time Of Year Thou Mayst In Me Behold",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14896": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14896,
"poem.id": 14896,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:57:21",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 11: As Fast As Thou Shalt Wane, So Fast Thou Grow'st",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14897": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14897,
"poem.id": 14897,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:57:27",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 120: That You Were Once Unkind Befriends Me Now",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14898": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14898,
"poem.id": 14898,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:57:33",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 108: What's In The Brain That Ink May Character",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14899": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14899,
"poem.id": 14899,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:57:35",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 115: Those Lines That I Before Have Writ Do Lie",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14900": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14900,
"poem.id": 14900,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:57:42",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 118: Like As To Make Our Appetite More Keen",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14901": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14901,
"poem.id": 14901,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:57:47",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 152: In Loving Thee Thou Know'st I Am Forsworn",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14902": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14902,
"poem.id": 14902,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:57:54",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 146: Poor Soul, The Centre Of My Sinful Earth",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14903": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14903,
"poem.id": 14903,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:57:56",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 111: O, For My Sake Do You With Fortune Chide",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14904": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14904,
"poem.id": 14904,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:58:00",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 94: They That Have Power To Hurt And Will Do None",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14905": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14905,
"poem.id": 14905,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:58:05",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 8: Music To Hear, Why Hear'st Thou Music Sadly?",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14906": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14906,
"poem.id": 14906,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:58:09",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 60: Like As The Waves Make Towards The Pebbled Shore",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14907": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14907,
"poem.id": 14907,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:58:16",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 114: Or Whether Doth My Mind, Being Crowned With You",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14908": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14908,
"poem.id": 14908,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:58:18",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 31: Thy Bosom Is EndearÈD With All Hearts",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14909": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14909,
"poem.id": 14909,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:58:21",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 57: Being Your Slave, What Should I Do But Tend",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14910": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14910,
"poem.id": 14910,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:58:25",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 112: Your Love And Pity Doth Th' Impression Fill",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14913": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14913,
"poem.id": 14913,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:58:31",
"poem.title": "When That I Was And A Little Tiny Boy",
"poem.date": "1/20/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14914": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14914,
"poem.id": 14914,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:58:33",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 50: How Heavy Do I Journey On The Way",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14916": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14916,
"poem.id": 14916,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:58:36",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 153: Cupid Laid By His Brand And Fell Asleep",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14917": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14917,
"poem.id": 14917,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:58:38",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 132: Thine Eyes I Love, And They, As Pitying Me",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14918": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14918,
"poem.id": 14918,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:58:42",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 27: Weary With Toil, I Haste Me To My Bed",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14919": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14919,
"poem.id": 14919,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:58:48",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 119: What Potions Have I Drunk Of Siren Tears",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14920": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14920,
"poem.id": 14920,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:58:53",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Cxvi: Let Me Not To The Marriage Of True Minds",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14921": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14921,
"poem.id": 14921,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:59:00",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 75: So Are You To My Thoughts As Food To Life",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14922": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14922,
"poem.id": 14922,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:59:04",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 25: Let Those Who Are In Favour With Their Stars",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14923": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14923,
"poem.id": 14923,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:59:10",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 87: Farewell! Thou Art Too Dear For My Possessing",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14924": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14924,
"poem.id": 14924,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:59:15",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 71: No Longer Mourn For Me When I Am Dead",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "Your browser does not support the audio element.",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14925": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14925,
"poem.id": 14925,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:59:20",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 151: Love Is Too Young To Know What Conscience Is",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14926": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14926,
"poem.id": 14926,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:59:22",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 28: How Can I Then Return In Happy Plight",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14927": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14927,
"poem.id": 14927,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:59:29",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 147: My Love Is As A Fever, Longing Still",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14928": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14928,
"poem.id": 14928,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:59:31",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 15: When I Consider Every Thing That Grows",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14929": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14929,
"poem.id": 14929,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:59:36",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 104: To Me, Fair Friend, You Never Can Be Old",
"poem.date": "3/30/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14930": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14930,
"poem.id": 14930,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:59:39",
"poem.title": "Witches Chant (From Macbeth)",
"poem.date": "3/29/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14931": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14931,
"poem.id": 14931,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:59:44",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 113: Since I Left You, Mine Eye Is In My Mind",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14932": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14932,
"poem.id": 14932,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:59:50",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 10: For Shame, Deny That Thou Bear'st Love To Any",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14933": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14933,
"poem.id": 14933,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:59:53",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 110: Alas, 'Tis True, I Have Gone Here And There",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14934": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14934,
"poem.id": 14934,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 01:59:59",
"poem.title": "That Time Of Year Thou Mayst In Me Behold (Sonnet 73)",
"poem.date": "1/20/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14935": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14935,
"poem.id": 14935,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:00:05",
"poem.title": "Spring And Winter",
"poem.date": "1/4/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14936": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14936,
"poem.id": 14936,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:00:10",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 17: Who Will Believe My Verse In Time To Come",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14937": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14937,
"poem.id": 14937,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:00:14",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 23: As An Unperfect Actor On The Stage",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14938": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14938,
"poem.id": 14938,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:00:19",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 142: Love Is My Sin, And Thy Dear Virtue Hate",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14939": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14939,
"poem.id": 14939,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:00:25",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 101: O Truant Muse, What Shall Be Thy Amends",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14940": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14940,
"poem.id": 14940,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:00:32",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 144: Two Loves I Have, Of Comfort And Despair",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14941": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14941,
"poem.id": 14941,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:00:35",
"poem.title": "Orpheus With His Lute Made Trees",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14942": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14942,
"poem.id": 14942,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:00:42",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 129: Th' Expense Of Spirit In A Waste Of Shame",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14943": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14943,
"poem.id": 14943,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:00:46",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 105: Let Not My Love Be Called Idolatry",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14944": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14944,
"poem.id": 14944,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:00:52",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 12: When I Do Count The Clock That Tells The Time",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14945": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14945,
"poem.id": 14945,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:00:56",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 103: Alack, What Poverty My Muse Brings Forth",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14946": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14946,
"poem.id": 14946,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:01:03",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 100: Where Art Thou, Muse, That Thou Forget'st So Long",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14947": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14947,
"poem.id": 14947,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:01:10",
"poem.title": "Sonet Liv",
"poem.date": "5/18/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14948": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14948,
"poem.id": 14948,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:01:13",
"poem.title": "To Be, Or Not To Be (Hamlet, Act Iii, Scene I)",
"poem.date": "3/29/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14949": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14949,
"poem.id": 14949,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:01:17",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 106: When In The Chronicle Of Wasted Time",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14950": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14950,
"poem.id": 14950,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:01:24",
"poem.title": "O Never Say That I Was False Of Heart",
"poem.date": "3/29/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14952": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14952,
"poem.id": 14952,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:01:26",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 40: Take All My Loves, My Love, Yea, Take Them All",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14953": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14953,
"poem.id": 14953,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:01:29",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 109: O, Never Say That I Was False Of Heart",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14954": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14954,
"poem.id": 14954,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:01:32",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 102: My Love Is Strengthened, Though More Weak In Seeming",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14956": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14956,
"poem.id": 14956,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:01:36",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 20: A Woman's Face With Nature's Own Hand Painted",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14957": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14957,
"poem.id": 14957,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:01:42",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 1: From Fairest Creatures We Desire Increase",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14958": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14958,
"poem.id": 14958,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:01:46",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 30: When To The Sessions Of Sweet Silent Thought",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14959": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14959,
"poem.id": 14959,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:01:49",
"poem.title": "Not Marble Nor The Guilded Monuments (Sonnet 55)",
"poem.date": "1/20/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14960": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14960,
"poem.id": 14960,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:01:53",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 128: How Oft, When Thou, My Music, Music Play'st",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14961": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14961,
"poem.id": 14961,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:01:55",
"poem.title": "Orpheus",
"poem.date": "1/4/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14962": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14962,
"poem.id": 14962,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:02:02",
"poem.title": "Silvia",
"poem.date": "1/4/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14963": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14963,
"poem.id": 14963,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:02:09",
"poem.title": "Under The Greenwood Tree",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14964": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14964,
"poem.id": 14964,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:02:12",
"poem.title": "When In Disgrace With Fortune And Men's Eyes (Sonnet 29)",
"poem.date": "1/20/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14965": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14965,
"poem.id": 14965,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:02:18",
"poem.title": "Not From The Stars Do I My Judgment Pluck (Sonnet 14)",
"poem.date": "1/20/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14966": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14966,
"poem.id": 14966,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:02:24",
"poem.title": "The Quality Of Mercy",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14967": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14967,
"poem.id": 14967,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:02:29",
"poem.title": "Fairy Land Iii",
"poem.date": "1/4/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14968": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14968,
"poem.id": 14968,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:02:33",
"poem.title": "Juliet's Soliloquy",
"poem.date": "3/29/2010",
"poem.content": "Farewell!--God knows when we shall meet again.I have a faint cold fear thrills through my veinsThat almost freezes up the heat of life:I'll call them back again to comfort me;--Nurse!--What should she do here?My dismal scene I needs must act alone.--Come, vial.--What if this mixture do not work at all?Shall I be married, then, to-morrow morning?--No, No!--this shall forbid it:--lie thou there.--What if it be a poison, which the friarSubtly hath minister'd to have me dead,Lest in this marriage he should be dishonour'd,Because he married me before to Romeo?I fear it is: and yet methinks it should not,For he hath still been tried a holy man:--I will not entertain so bad a thought.--How if, when I am laid into the tomb,I wake before the time that RomeoCome to redeem me? there's a fearful point!Shall I not then be stifled in the vault,To whose foul mouth no healthsome air breathes in,And there die strangled ere my Romeo comes?Or, if I live, is it not very likeThe horrible conceit of death and night,Together with the terror of the place,--As in a vault, an ancient receptacle,Where, for this many hundred years, the bonesOf all my buried ancestors are pack'd;Where bloody Tybalt, yet but green in earth,Lies festering in his shroud; where, as they say,At some hours in the night spirits resort;--Alack, alack, is it not like that I,So early waking,--what with loathsome smells,And shrieks like mandrakes torn out of the earth,That living mortals, hearing them, run mad;--O, if I wake, shall I not be distraught,Environed with all these hideous fears?And madly play with my forefathers' joints?And pluck the mangled Tybalt from his shroud?And, in this rage, with some great kinsman's bone,As with a club, dash out my desperate brains?--O, look! methinks I see my cousin's ghostSeeking out Romeo, that did spit his bodyUpon a rapier's point:--stay, Tybalt, stay!--Romeo, I come! this do I drink to thee.",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14969": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14969,
"poem.id": 14969,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:02:39",
"poem.title": "Sigh No More",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14970": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14970,
"poem.id": 14970,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:02:45",
"poem.title": "It Was A Lover And His Lass",
"poem.date": "1/4/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14971": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14971,
"poem.id": 14971,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:02:50",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 130: My Mistress' Eyes Are Nothing Like The Sun",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14972": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14972,
"poem.id": 14972,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:02:54",
"poem.title": "Dirge Of The Three Queens",
"poem.date": "1/4/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14973": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14973,
"poem.id": 14973,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:03:01",
"poem.title": "Fairy Land Ii",
"poem.date": "1/4/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14974": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14974,
"poem.id": 14974,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:03:08",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 18: Shall I Compare Thee To A Summer's Day?",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14975": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14975,
"poem.id": 14975,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:03:11",
"poem.title": "Fairy Land I",
"poem.date": "1/4/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14976": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14976,
"poem.id": 14976,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:03:14",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 138: When My Love Swears That She Is Made Of Truth",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14977": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14977,
"poem.id": 14977,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:03:18",
"poem.title": "From Venus And Adonis",
"poem.date": "1/20/2003",
"poem.content": "But, lo! from forth a copse that neighbours by,A breeding jennet, lusty, young, and proud,Adonis' trampling courser doth espy,And forth she rushes, snorts and neighs aloud; The strong-neck'd steed, being tied unto a tree, Breaketh his rein, and to her straight goes he.Imperiously he leaps, he neighs, he bounds,And now his woven girths he breaks asunder;The bearing earth with his hard hoof he wounds,Whose hollow womb resounds like heaven's thunder; The iron bit he crushes 'tween his teeth Controlling what he was controlled with.His ears up-prick'd; his braided hanging maneUpon his compass'd crest now stand on end;His nostrils drink the air, and forth again,As from a furnace, vapours doth he send: His eye, which scornfully glisters like fire, Shows his hot courage and his high desire.Sometime her trots, as if he told the steps,With gentle majesty and modest pride;Anon he rears upright, curvets and leaps,As who should say, 'Lo! thus my strength is tried; And this I do to captivate the eye Of the fair breeder that is standing by.'What recketh he his rider's angry stir,His flattering 'Holla,' or his 'Stand, I say?'What cares he now for curb of pricking spur?For rich caparisons or trapping gay? He sees his love, and nothing else he sees, Nor nothing else with his proud sight agrees.Look, when a painter would surpass the life, In limning out a well-proportion'd steed,His art with nature's workmanship at strife,As if the dead the living should exceed; So did this horse excel a common one, In shape, in courage, colour, pace and boneRound-hoof'd, short-jointed, fetlocks shag and long,Broad breast, full eye, small head, and nostril wide,High crest, short ears, straight legs and passing strong,Thin mane, thick tail, broad buttock, tender hide: Look, what a horse should have he did not lack, Save a proud rider on so proud a back.Sometimes he scuds far off, and there he stares;Anon he starts at stirring of a feather;To bid the wind a race he now prepares,And whe'r he run or fly they know not whether; For through his mane and tail the high wind sings, Fanning the hairs, who wave like feather'd wings.He looks upon his love, and neighs unto her;She answers him as if she knew his mind;Being proud, as females are, to see him woo her,She puts on outward strangeness, seems unkind, Spurns at his love and scorns the heat he feels, Beating his kind embracements with her heels.Then, like a melancholy malcontent,He vails his tail that, like a falling plumeCool shadow to his melting buttock lent:He stamps, and bites the poor flies in his fume. His love, perceiving how he is enrag'd, Grew kinder, and his fury was assuag'd.His testy master goeth about to take him;When lo! the unback'd breeder, full of fear,Jealous of catching, swiftly doth forsake him,With her the horse, and left Adonis there. As they were mad, unto the wood they hie them, Out-stripping crows that strive to over-fly them. I prophesy they death, my living sorrow, If thou encounter with the boar to-morrow.\"But if thou needs wilt hunt, be rul'd by me;Uncouple at the timorous flying hare,Or at the fox which lives by subtlety,Or at the roe which no encounter dare: Pursue these fearful creatures o'er the downs, And on they well-breath'd horse keep with they hounds.\"And when thou hast on food the purblind hare,Mark the poor wretch, to overshoot his troublesHow he outruns with winds, and with what careHe cranks and crosses with a thousand doubles: The many musits through the which he goes Are like a labyrinth to amaze his foes.\"Sometime he runs among a flock of sheep,To make the cunning hounds mistake their smell,And sometime where earth-delving conies keep,To stop the loud pursuers in their yell, And sometime sorteth with a herd of deer; Danger deviseth shifts; wit waits on fear:\"For there his smell with other being mingled,The hot scent-snuffing hounds are driven to doubt,Ceasing their clamorous cry till they have singled With much ado the cold fault cleanly out; Then do they spend their mouths: Echo replies, As if another chase were in the skies.\"By this, poor Wat, far off upon a hill,Stands on his hinder legs with listening ear,To hearken if his foes pursue him still:Anon their loud alarums he doth hear; And now his grief may be compared well To one sore sick that hears the passing-bell.\"Then shalt thou see the dew-bedabbled wretchTurn, and return, indenting with the way;Each envious briar his weary legs doth scratch,Each shadow makes him stop, each murmur stay: For misery is trodden on by many, And being low never reliev'd by any.\"Lie quietly, and hear a little more;Nay, do not struggle, for thou shalt not rise:To make thee hate the hunting of the boar,Unlike myself thou hear'st me moralize, Applying this to that, and so to so; For love can comment upon every woe.\"",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14978": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14978,
"poem.id": 14978,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:03:21",
"poem.title": "Winter",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14979": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14979,
"poem.id": 14979,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:03:24",
"poem.title": "Dirge",
"poem.date": "1/4/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14980": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14980,
"poem.id": 14980,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:03:29",
"poem.title": "Aubade",
"poem.date": "1/4/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14981": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14981,
"poem.id": 14981,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:03:32",
"poem.title": "Sonnet 116: Let Me Not To The Marriage Of True Minds",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14982": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14982,
"poem.id": 14982,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:03:39",
"poem.title": "A Madrigal",
"poem.date": "3/29/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14983": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14983,
"poem.id": 14983,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:03:45",
"poem.title": "Bridal Song",
"poem.date": "1/4/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14984": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14984,
"poem.id": 14984,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:03:52",
"poem.title": "Full Fathom Five",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14985": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14985,
"poem.id": 14985,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:03:55",
"poem.title": "Love",
"poem.date": "1/4/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14986": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14986,
"poem.id": 14986,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:04:00",
"poem.title": "Hark! Hark! The Lark",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14987": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14987,
"poem.id": 14987,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:04:03",
"poem.title": "Blow, Blow, Thou Winter Wind",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14988": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14988,
"poem.id": 14988,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:04:09",
"poem.title": "A Lover's Complaint",
"poem.date": "5/18/2001",
"poem.content": "FROM off a hill whose concave womb reworded A plaintful story from a sistering vale, My spirits to attend this double voice accorded, And down I laid to list the sad-tuned tale; Ere long espied a fickle maid full pale, Tearing of papers, breaking rings a-twain, Storming her world with sorrow's wind and rain. Upon her head a platted hive of straw, Which fortified her visage from the sun, Whereon the thought might think sometime it saw The carcass of beauty spent and done: Time had not scythed all that youth begun, Nor youth all quit; but, spite of heaven's fell rage, Some beauty peep'd through lattice of sear'd age. Oft did she heave her napkin to her eyne, Which on it had conceited characters, Laundering the silken figures in the brine That season'd woe had pelleted in tears, And often reading what contents it bears; As often shrieking undistinguish'd woe, In clamours of all size, both high and low. Sometimes her levell'd eyes their carriage ride, As they did battery to the spheres intend; Sometime diverted their poor balls are tied To the orbed earth; sometimes they do extend Their view right on; anon their gazes lend To every place at once, and, nowhere fix'd, The mind and sight distractedly commix'd. Her hair, nor loose nor tied in formal plat, Proclaim'd in her a careless hand of pride For some, untuck'd, descended her sheaved hat, Hanging her pale and pined cheek beside; Some in her threaden fillet still did bide, And true to bondage would not break from thence, Though slackly braided in loose negligence. A thousand favours from a maund she drew Of amber, crystal, and of beaded jet, Which one by one she in a river threw, Upon whose weeping margent she was set; Like usury, applying wet to wet, Or monarch's hands that let not bounty fall Where want cries some, but where excess begs all. Of folded schedules had she many a one, Which she perused, sigh'd, tore, and gave the flood; Crack'd many a ring of posied gold and bone Bidding them find their sepulchres in mud; Found yet moe letters sadly penn'd in blood, With sleided silk feat and affectedly Enswathed, and seal'd to curious secrecy. These often bathed she in her fluxive eyes, And often kiss'd, and often 'gan to tear: Cried 'O false blood, thou register of lies, What unapproved witness dost thou bear! Ink would have seem'd more black and damned here!' This said, in top of rage the lines she rents, Big discontent so breaking their contents. A reverend man that grazed his cattle nigh-- Sometime a blusterer, that the ruffle knew Of court, of city, and had let go by The swiftest hours, observed as they flew-- Towards this afflicted fancy fastly drew, And, privileged by age, desires to know In brief the grounds and motives of her woe. So slides he down upon his grained bat, And comely-distant sits he by her side; When he again desires her, being sat, Her grievance with his hearing to divide: If that from him there may be aught applied Which may her suffering ecstasy assuage, 'Tis promised in the charity of age. 'Father,' she says, 'though in me you behold The injury of many a blasting hour, Let it not tell your judgment I am old; Not age, but sorrow, over me hath power: I might as yet have been a spreading flower, Fresh to myself, If I had self-applied Love to myself and to no love beside. 'But, woe is me! too early I attended A youthful suit--it was to gain my grace-- Of one by nature's outwards so commended, That maidens' eyes stuck over all his face: Love lack'd a dwelling, and made him her place; And when in his fair parts she did abide, She was new lodged and newly deified. 'His browny locks did hang in crooked curls; And every light occasion of the wind Upon his lips their silken parcels hurls. What's sweet to do, to do will aptly find: Each eye that saw him did enchant the mind, For on his visage was in little drawn What largeness thinks in Paradise was sawn. 'Small show of man was yet upon his chin; His phoenix down began but to appear Like unshorn velvet on that termless skin Whose bare out-bragg'd the web it seem'd to wear: Yet show'd his visage by that cost more dear; And nice affections wavering stood in doubt If best were as it was, or best without. 'His qualities were beauteous as his form, For maiden-tongued he was, and thereof free; Yet, if men moved him, was he such a storm As oft 'twixt May and April is to see, When winds breathe sweet, untidy though they be. His rudeness so with his authorized youth Did livery falseness in a pride of truth. 'Well could he ride, and often men would say 'That horse his mettle from his rider takes: Proud of subjection, noble by the sway, What rounds, what bounds, what course, what stop he makes!' And controversy hence a question takes, Whether the horse by him became his deed, Or he his manage by the well-doing steed. 'But quickly on this side the verdict went: His real habitude gave life and grace To appertainings and to ornament, Accomplish'd in himself, not in his case: All aids, themselves made fairer by their place, Came for additions; yet their purposed trim Pieced not his grace, but were all graced by him. 'So on the tip of his subduing tongue All kinds of arguments and question deep, All replication prompt, and reason strong, For his advantage still did wake and sleep: To make the weeper laugh, the laugher weep, He had the dialect and different skill, Catching all passions in his craft of will: 'That he did in the general bosom reign Of young, of old; and sexes both enchanted, To dwell with him in thoughts, or to remain In personal duty, following where he haunted: Consents bewitch'd, ere he desire, have granted; And dialogued for him what he would say, Ask'd their own wills, and made their wills obey. 'Many there were that did his picture get, To serve their eyes, and in it put their mind; Like fools that in th' imagination set The goodly objects which abroad they find Of lands and mansions, theirs in thought assign'd; And labouring in moe pleasures to bestow them Than the true gouty landlord which doth owe them: 'So many have, that never touch'd his hand, Sweetly supposed them mistress of his heart. My woeful self, that did in freedom stand, And was my own fee-simple, not in part, What with his art in youth, and youth in art, Threw my affections in his charmed power, Reserved the stalk and gave him all my flower. 'Yet did I not, as some my equals did, Demand of him, nor being desired yielded; Finding myself in honour so forbid, With safest distance I mine honour shielded: Experience for me many bulwarks builded Of proofs new-bleeding, which remain'd the foil Of this false jewel, and his amorous spoil. 'But, ah, who ever shunn'd by precedent The destined ill she must herself assay? Or forced examples, 'gainst her own content, To put the by-past perils in her way? Counsel may stop awhile what will not stay; For when we rage, advice is often seen By blunting us to make our wits more keen. 'Nor gives it satisfaction to our blood, That we must curb it upon others' proof; To be forbod the sweets that seem so good, For fear of harms that preach in our behoof. O appetite, from judgment stand aloof! The one a palate hath that needs will taste, Though Reason weep, and cry, 'It is thy last.' 'For further I could say 'This man's untrue,' And knew the patterns of his foul beguiling; Heard where his plants in others' orchards grew, Saw how deceits were gilded in his smiling; Knew vows were ever brokers to defiling; Thought characters and words merely but art, And bastards of his foul adulterate heart. 'And long upon these terms I held my city, Till thus he gan besiege me: 'Gentle maid, Have of my suffering youth some feeling pity, And be not of my holy vows afraid: That's to ye sworn to none was ever said; For feasts of love I have been call'd unto, Till now did ne'er invite, nor never woo. ''All my offences that abroad you see Are errors of the blood, none of the mind; Love made them not: with acture they may be, Where neither party is nor true nor kind: They sought their shame that so their shame did find; And so much less of shame in me remains, By how much of me their reproach contains. ''Among the many that mine eyes have seen, Not one whose flame my heart so much as warm'd, Or my affection put to the smallest teen, Or any of my leisures ever charm'd: Harm have I done to them, but ne'er was harm'd; Kept hearts in liveries, but mine own was free, And reign'd, commanding in his monarchy. ''Look here, what tributes wounded fancies sent me, Of paled pearls and rubies red as blood; Figuring that they their passions likewise lent me Of grief and blushes, aptly understood In bloodless white and the encrimson'd mood; Effects of terror and dear modesty, Encamp'd in hearts, but fighting outwardly. ''And, lo, behold these talents of their hair, With twisted metal amorously impleach'd, I have received from many a several fair, Their kind acceptance weepingly beseech'd, With the annexions of fair gems enrich'd, And deep-brain'd sonnets that did amplify Each stone's dear nature, worth, and quality. ''The diamond,--why, 'twas beautiful and hard, Whereto his invised properties did tend; The deep-green emerald, in whose fresh regard Weak sights their sickly radiance do amend; The heaven-hued sapphire and the opal blend With objects manifold: each several stone, With wit well blazon'd, smiled or made some moan. ''Lo, all these trophies of affections hot, Of pensived and subdued desires the tender, Nature hath charged me that I hoard them not, But yield them up where I myself must render, That is, to you, my origin and ender; For these, of force, must your oblations be, Since I their altar, you enpatron me. ''O, then, advance of yours that phraseless hand, Whose white weighs down the airy scale of praise; Take all these similes to your own command, Hallow'd with sighs that burning lungs did raise; What me your minister, for you obeys, Works under you; and to your audit comes Their distract parcels in combined sums. ''Lo, this device was sent me from a nun, Or sister sanctified, of holiest note; Which late her noble suit in court did shun, Whose rarest havings made the blossoms dote; For she was sought by spirits of richest coat, But kept cold distance, and did thence remove, To spend her living in eternal love. ''But, O my sweet, what labour is't to leave The thing we have not, mastering what not strives, Playing the place which did no form receive, Playing patient sports in unconstrained gyves? She that her fame so to herself contrives, The scars of battle 'scapeth by the flight, And makes her absence valiant, not her might. ''O, pardon me, in that my boast is true: The accident which brought me to her eye Upon the moment did her force subdue, And now she would the caged cloister fly: Religious love put out Religion's eye: Not to be tempted, would she be immured, And now, to tempt, all liberty procured. ''How mighty then you are, O, hear me tell! The broken bosoms that to me belong Have emptied all their fountains in my well, And mine I pour your ocean all among: I strong o'er them, and you o'er me being strong, Must for your victory us all congest, As compound love to physic your cold breast. ''My parts had power to charm a sacred nun, Who, disciplined, ay, dieted in grace, Believed her eyes when they to assail begun, All vows and consecrations giving place: O most potential love! vow, bond, nor space, In thee hath neither sting, knot, nor confine, For thou art all, and all things else are thine. ''When thou impressest, what are precepts worth Of stale example? When thou wilt inflame, How coldly those impediments stand forth Of wealth, of filial fear, law, kindred, fame! Love's arms are peace, 'gainst rule, 'gainst sense, 'gainst shame, And sweetens, in the suffering pangs it bears, The aloes of all forces, shocks, and fears. ''Now all these hearts that do on mine depend, Feeling it break, with bleeding groans they pine; And supplicant their sighs to you extend, To leave the battery that you make 'gainst mine, Lending soft audience to my sweet design, And credent soul to that strong-bonded oath That shall prefer and undertake my troth.' 'This said, his watery eyes he did dismount, Whose sights till then were levell'd on my face; Each cheek a river running from a fount With brinish current downward flow'd apace: O, how the channel to the stream gave grace! Who glazed with crystal gate the glowing roses That flame through water which their hue encloses. 'O father, what a hell of witchcraft lies In the small orb of one particular tear! But with the inundation of the eyes What rocky heart to water will not wear? What breast so cold that is not warmed here? O cleft effect! cold modesty, hot wrath, Both fire from hence and chill extincture hath. 'For, lo, his passion, but an art of craft, Even there resolved my reason into tears; There my white stole of chastity I daff'd, Shook off my sober guards and civil fears; Appear to him, as he to me appears, All melting; though our drops this difference bore, His poison'd me, and mine did him restore. 'In him a plenitude of subtle matter, Applied to cautels, all strange forms receives, Of burning blushes, or of weeping water, Or swooning paleness; and he takes and leaves, In either's aptness, as it best deceives, To blush at speeches rank to weep at woes, Or to turn white and swoon at tragic shows. 'That not a heart which in his level came Could 'scape the hail of his all-hurting aim, Showing fair nature is both kind and tame; And, veil'd in them, did win whom he would maim: Against the thing he sought he would exclaim; When he most burn'd in heart-wish'd luxury, He preach'd pure maid, and praised cold chastity. 'Thus merely with the garment of a Grace The naked and concealed fiend he cover'd; That th' unexperient gave the tempter place, Which like a cherubin above them hover'd. Who, young and simple, would not be so lover'd? Ay me! I fell; and yet do question make What I should do again for such a sake. 'O, that infected moisture of his eye, O, that false fire which in his cheek so glow'd, O, that forced thunder from his heart did fly, O, that sad breath his spongy lungs bestow'd, O, all that borrow'd motion seeming owed, Would yet again betray the fore-betray'd, And new pervert a reconciled maid!'",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14989": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14989,
"poem.id": 14989,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:04:16",
"poem.title": "Fear No More",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14990": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14990,
"poem.id": 14990,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:04:20",
"poem.title": "O Mistress Mine, Where Are You Roaming? (Twelfth Night, Act Ii, Scene Iii)",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14991": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14991,
"poem.id": 14991,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:04:21",
"poem.title": "Shall I Compare Thee To A Summer's Day? (Sonnet 18)",
"poem.date": "1/20/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14992": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14992,
"poem.id": 14992,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:04:23",
"poem.title": "A Fairy Song",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
},
"14993": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 14993,
"poem.id": 14993,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:04:27",
"poem.title": "All The World's A Stage",
"poem.date": "1/20/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "William Shakespeare"
}
} |
| 4 | 2018-02-28 20:20:42 | Langston Hughes | {
"121": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 121,
"poem.id": 121,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:51:32",
"poem.title": "You and your whole race",
"poem.date": "7/31/2015",
"poem.content": "You and your whole race.Look down upon the town in which you liveAnd be ashamed.Look down upon white folks And upon yourselves And be ashamedThat such supine poverty exists there,That such stupid ignorance breeds children thereBehind such humble shelters of despair—That you yourselves have not the sense to careNor the manhood to stand up and sayI dare you to come one step nearer, evil world,With your hands of greed seeking to touch my throat, I dare you to come one step nearer me: When you can say that you will be free!",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"122": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 122,
"poem.id": 122,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:51:37",
"poem.title": "Thanksgiving Time",
"poem.date": "5/8/2015",
"poem.content": "When the night winds whistle through the trees and blow the crisp brown leaves a-crackling down,When the autumn moon is big and yellow-orange and round,When old Jack Frost is sparkling on the ground, It's Thanksgiving Time!When the pantry jars are full of mince-meat and the shelves are laden with sweet spices for a cake,When the butcher man sends up a turkey nice and fat to bake,When the stores are crammed with everything ingenious cooks can make, It's Thanksgiving Time!When the gales of coming winter outside your window howl,When the air is sharp and cheery so it drives away your scowl, When one's appetite craves turkey and will have no other fowl, It's Thanksgiving Time!",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"123": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 123,
"poem.id": 123,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:51:41",
"poem.title": "Warning",
"poem.date": "5/11/2015",
"poem.content": "Negroes,Sweet and docile,Meek, humble and kind:Beware the dayThey change their mind!WindIn the cotton fields,Gentle Breeze:Beware the hourIt uproots trees!",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"124": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 124,
"poem.id": 124,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:51:45",
"poem.title": "Feet o' Jesus",
"poem.date": "7/23/2015",
"poem.content": "At the feet o' Jesus,Sorrow like a sea.Lordy, let yo' mercyCome driftin' down on me.At the feet o' JesusAt yo' feet I stand.O, ma little Jesus,Please reach out yo' hand.",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"125": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 125,
"poem.id": 125,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:51:49",
"poem.title": "Park Bench",
"poem.date": "3/17/2015",
"poem.content": "I live on a park bench. You, Park Avenue. Hell of a distance Between us two.I beg a dime for dinner- You got a butler and maid. But I'm wakin' up! Say, ain't you afraidThat I might, just maybe, In a year or two, Move on over To Park Avenue?",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"126": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 126,
"poem.id": 126,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:51:52",
"poem.title": "The City",
"poem.date": "7/22/2015",
"poem.content": "In the morning the citySpreads its wingsMaking a songIn stone that sings.In the evening the cityGoes to bedHanging lights Above its head.",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"127": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 127,
"poem.id": 127,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:51:57",
"poem.title": "Dying Beast",
"poem.date": "3/19/2016",
"poem.content": "Sensing death, The buzzards gather — Noting the last struggle Of flesh under weather, Noting the last glance Of agonized eye At passing wind And boundless sky.",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"128": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 128,
"poem.id": 128,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:52:00",
"poem.title": "Song For A Dark Girl",
"poem.date": "3/17/2015",
"poem.content": "Way Down South in Dixie(Break the heart of me)They hung my black young loverTo a cross roads tree.Way Down South in Dixie(Bruised body high in air)I asked the white Lord JesusWhat was the use of prayer.Way Down South in Dixie(Break the heart of me)Love is a naked shadowOn a gnarled and naked tree.",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"129": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 129,
"poem.id": 129,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:52:04",
"poem.title": "God",
"poem.date": "3/7/2015",
"poem.content": "I am God—Without one friend,Alone in my purityWorld without end.Below me young loversTread the sweet ground—But I am God—I cannot come down.Spring!Life is love!Love is life only!Better to be humanThan God—and lonely.",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"130": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 130,
"poem.id": 130,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:52:06",
"poem.title": "Kids Who Die",
"poem.date": "8/8/2015",
"poem.content": "This is for the kids who die,Black and white,For kids will die certainly.The old and rich will live on awhile,As always,Eating blood and gold,Letting kids die.Kids will die in the swamps of MississippiOrganizing sharecroppersKids will die in the streets of ChicagoOrganizing workersKids will die in the orange groves of CaliforniaTelling others to get togetherWhites and Filipinos,Negroes and Mexicans,All kinds of kids will dieWho don't believe in lies, and bribes, and contentmentAnd a lousy peace.Of course, the wise and the learnedWho pen editorials in the papers,And the gentlemen with Dr. in front of their namesWhite and black,Who make surveys and write booksWill live on weaving words to smother the kids who die,And the sleazy courts,And the bribe-reaching police,And the blood-loving generals,And the money-loving preachersWill all raise their hands against the kids who die,Beating them with laws and clubs and bayonets and bulletsTo frighten the people—For the kids who die are like iron in the blood of the people—And the old and rich don't want the peopleTo taste the iron of the kids who die,Don't want the people to get wise to their own power,To believe an Angelo Herndon, or even get togetherListen, kids who die—Maybe, now, there will be no monument for youExcept in our heartsMaybe your bodies'll be lost in a swampOr a prison grave, or the potter's field,Or the rivers where you're drowned like LeibknechtBut the day will come—You are sure yourselves that it is coming—When the marching feet of the massesWill raise for you a living monument of love,And joy, and laughter,And black hands and white hands clasped as one,And a song that reaches the sky—The song of the life triumphantThrough the kids who die.",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"131": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 131,
"poem.id": 131,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:52:09",
"poem.title": "Pierrot",
"poem.date": "3/27/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"132": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 132,
"poem.id": 132,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:52:16",
"poem.title": "Prize Fighter",
"poem.date": "3/27/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"133": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 133,
"poem.id": 133,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:52:23",
"poem.title": "Question [1]",
"poem.date": "3/27/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"134": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 134,
"poem.id": 134,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:52:28",
"poem.title": "Madam And The Census Man",
"poem.date": "3/27/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"135": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 135,
"poem.id": 135,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:52:31",
"poem.title": "Madam's Past History",
"poem.date": "3/27/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"136": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 136,
"poem.id": 136,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:52:37",
"poem.title": "Sick Room",
"poem.date": "3/27/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"137": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 137,
"poem.id": 137,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:52:42",
"poem.title": "To Certain",
"poem.date": "3/27/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"138": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 138,
"poem.id": 138,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:52:48",
"poem.title": "Sylvester’s Dying Bed",
"poem.date": "3/27/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"139": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 139,
"poem.id": 139,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:52:53",
"poem.title": "Personal",
"poem.date": "3/27/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"140": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 140,
"poem.id": 140,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:52:58",
"poem.title": "Lincoln Monument: Washington",
"poem.date": "3/29/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"141": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 141,
"poem.id": 141,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:53:00",
"poem.title": "When Sue Wears Red",
"poem.date": "3/27/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"142": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 142,
"poem.id": 142,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:53:04",
"poem.title": "Morning After",
"poem.date": "3/27/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"143": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 143,
"poem.id": 143,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:53:11",
"poem.title": "Me And The Mule",
"poem.date": "3/27/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"144": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 144,
"poem.id": 144,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:53:16",
"poem.title": "Wealth",
"poem.date": "3/27/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"145": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 145,
"poem.id": 145,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:53:21",
"poem.title": "Lonesome Place",
"poem.date": "3/27/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"146": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 146,
"poem.id": 146,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:53:27",
"poem.title": "Genius Child",
"poem.date": "7/23/2012",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"147": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 147,
"poem.id": 147,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:53:34",
"poem.title": "Songs",
"poem.date": "3/27/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"148": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 148,
"poem.id": 148,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:53:40",
"poem.title": "Negro Dancers",
"poem.date": "3/27/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"149": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 149,
"poem.id": 149,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:53:47",
"poem.title": "Snake",
"poem.date": "3/27/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"150": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 150,
"poem.id": 150,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:53:52",
"poem.title": "Trumpet Player",
"poem.date": "3/27/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"151": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 151,
"poem.id": 151,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:53:54",
"poem.title": "Madam And The Rent Man",
"poem.date": "3/27/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"152": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 152,
"poem.id": 152,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:53:59",
"poem.title": "Wisdom And War",
"poem.date": "3/27/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"153": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 153,
"poem.id": 153,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:54:03",
"poem.title": "Fire-Caught",
"poem.date": "3/27/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"154": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 154,
"poem.id": 154,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:54:09",
"poem.title": "Catch",
"poem.date": "3/27/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"155": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 155,
"poem.id": 155,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:54:16",
"poem.title": "For Selma",
"poem.date": "3/27/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"156": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 156,
"poem.id": 156,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:54:19",
"poem.title": "Motto",
"poem.date": "3/27/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"157": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 157,
"poem.id": 157,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:54:25",
"poem.title": "Dream Boogie",
"poem.date": "3/27/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"158": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 158,
"poem.id": 158,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:54:27",
"poem.title": "Peace",
"poem.date": "3/27/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"159": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 159,
"poem.id": 159,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:54:32",
"poem.title": "Silence",
"poem.date": "3/27/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"160": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 160,
"poem.id": 160,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:54:35",
"poem.title": "Brass Spittoons",
"poem.date": "3/27/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"15034": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15034,
"poem.id": 15034,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:04:32",
"poem.title": "The Ballad Of The Landlord",
"poem.date": "3/29/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"15035": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15035,
"poem.id": 15035,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:04:36",
"poem.title": "Deceased",
"poem.date": "3/27/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"15036": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15036,
"poem.id": 15036,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:04:43",
"poem.title": "Helen Keller",
"poem.date": "3/27/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"15037": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15037,
"poem.id": 15037,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:04:47",
"poem.title": "Demand",
"poem.date": "3/27/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"15038": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15038,
"poem.id": 15038,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:04:54",
"poem.title": "Final Curve",
"poem.date": "3/27/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"15039": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15039,
"poem.id": 15039,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:04:58",
"poem.title": "I Continue To Dream",
"poem.date": "3/27/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"15040": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15040,
"poem.id": 15040,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:05:03",
"poem.title": "Gods",
"poem.date": "3/27/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"15041": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15041,
"poem.id": 15041,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:05:08",
"poem.title": "In Time Of Silver Rain",
"poem.date": "3/27/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"15042": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15042,
"poem.id": 15042,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:05:12",
"poem.title": "I Dream A World",
"poem.date": "3/27/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"15043": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15043,
"poem.id": 15043,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:05:17",
"poem.title": "Bouquet",
"poem.date": "3/27/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"15044": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15044,
"poem.id": 15044,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:05:20",
"poem.title": "Ardella",
"poem.date": "3/27/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"15045": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15045,
"poem.id": 15045,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:05:23",
"poem.title": "Easy Boogie",
"poem.date": "3/27/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"15046": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15046,
"poem.id": 15046,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:05:28",
"poem.title": "Bound No’th Blues",
"poem.date": "3/27/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"15047": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15047,
"poem.id": 15047,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:05:32",
"poem.title": "Enemy",
"poem.date": "3/27/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"15048": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15048,
"poem.id": 15048,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:05:36",
"poem.title": "Love Song For Lucinda",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"15049": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15049,
"poem.id": 15049,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:05:42",
"poem.title": "Madam And The Phone Bill",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"15050": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15050,
"poem.id": 15050,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:05:47",
"poem.title": "Madam And Her Madam",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"15051": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15051,
"poem.id": 15051,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:05:50",
"poem.title": "Sea Calm",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"15052": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15052,
"poem.id": 15052,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:05:54",
"poem.title": "Will V-Day Be Me-Day Too?",
"poem.date": "1/20/2003",
"poem.content": "Over There,World War II. Dear Fellow Americans,I write this letterHoping times will be betterWhen this warIs through.I'm a Tan-skinned YankDriving a tank.I ask, WILL V-DAYBE ME-DAY, TOO?I wear a U. S. uniform.I've done the enemy much harm,I've driven backThe Germans and the Japs,From Burma to the Rhine.On every battle line,I've dropped defeatInto the Fascists' laps.I am a Negro AmericanOut to defend my landArmy, Navy, Air Corps--I am there.I take munitions through,I fight--or stevedore, too.I face death the same as you do Everywhere.I've seen my buddy lyingWhere he fell.I've watched him dyingI promised him that I would tryTo make our land a landWhere his son could be a man--And there'd be no Jim Crow birdsLeft in our sky.So this is what I want to know:When we see Victory's glow,Will you still let old Jim CrowHold me back?When all those foreign folks who've waited--Italians, Chinese, Danes--are liberated.Will I still be ill-fatedBecause I'm black?Here in my own, my native land,Will the Jim Crow laws still stand?Will Dixie lynch me stillWhen I return?Or will you comrades in armsFrom the factories and the farms,Have learned what this warWas fought for us to learn?When I take off my uniform,Will I be safe from harm--Or will you do meAs the Germans did the Jews?When I've helped this world to save,Shall I still be color's slave?Or will Victory changeYour antiquated views?You can't say I didn't fightTo smash the Fascists' might.You can't say I wasn't with youin each battle.As a soldier, and a friend.When this war comes to an end,Will you herd me in a Jim Crow carLike cattle?Or will you stand up like a manAt home and take your standFor Democracy?That's all I ask of you.When we lay the guns awayTo celebrateOur Victory DayWILL V-DAY BE ME-DAY, TOO?That's what I want to know.Sincerely,GI Joe.",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"15053": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15053,
"poem.id": 15053,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:05:57",
"poem.title": "Oppression",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"15054": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15054,
"poem.id": 15054,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:06:00",
"poem.title": "Minstrel Man",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"15055": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15055,
"poem.id": 15055,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:06:02",
"poem.title": "Walkers With The Dawn",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"15056": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15056,
"poem.id": 15056,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:06:06",
"poem.title": "Wake",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"15057": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15057,
"poem.id": 15057,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:06:10",
"poem.title": "Po' Boy Blues",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"15058": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15058,
"poem.id": 15058,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:06:15",
"poem.title": "Harlem [dream Deferred]",
"poem.date": "3/27/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"15059": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15059,
"poem.id": 15059,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:06:19",
"poem.title": "Night Funeral In Harlem",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"15060": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15060,
"poem.id": 15060,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:06:24",
"poem.title": "To Artina",
"poem.date": "9/12/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"15061": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15061,
"poem.id": 15061,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:06:29",
"poem.title": "Acceptance",
"poem.date": "3/27/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"15062": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15062,
"poem.id": 15062,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:06:36",
"poem.title": "Jazzonia",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"15063": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15063,
"poem.id": 15063,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:06:38",
"poem.title": "Quiet Girl",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"15064": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15064,
"poem.id": 15064,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:06:45",
"poem.title": "Advertisement For The Waldorf-Astoria",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"15065": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15065,
"poem.id": 15065,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:06:48",
"poem.title": "The Blues",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"15066": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15066,
"poem.id": 15066,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:06:54",
"poem.title": "The Weary Blues",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"15067": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15067,
"poem.id": 15067,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:06:59",
"poem.title": "50-50",
"poem.date": "3/27/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"15068": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15068,
"poem.id": 15068,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:07:04",
"poem.title": "Problems",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"15069": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15069,
"poem.id": 15069,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:07:09",
"poem.title": "Negro Speaks Of Rivers",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"15070": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15070,
"poem.id": 15070,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:07:15",
"poem.title": "Still Here",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "been scarred and battered.My hopes the wind done scattered.Snow has friz me,Sun has baked me,Looks like between 'em they doneTried to make meStop laughin', stop lovin', stop livin'- But I don't care! I'm still here!",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"15071": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15071,
"poem.id": 15071,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:07:20",
"poem.title": "Ennui",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"15072": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15072,
"poem.id": 15072,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:07:24",
"poem.title": "Theme For English B",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"15073": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15073,
"poem.id": 15073,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:07:30",
"poem.title": "Juke Box Love Song",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"15074": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15074,
"poem.id": 15074,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:07:32",
"poem.title": "Merry-Go-Round",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"15075": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15075,
"poem.id": 15075,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:07:38",
"poem.title": "The Negro Speaks Of Rivers",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"15076": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15076,
"poem.id": 15076,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:07:42",
"poem.title": "Justice",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"15077": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15077,
"poem.id": 15077,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:07:47",
"poem.title": "Cultural Exchange",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "In the Quarter of the NegroesWhere the doors are doors of paperDust of dingy atomsBlows a scratchy sound.Amorphous jack-o'-Lanterns caperAnd the wind won't wait for midnightFor fun to blow doors down.By the river and the railroadWith fluid far-off goindBoundaries bind unbindingA whirl of whisteles blowing.No trains or steamboats going--Yet Leontyne's unpacking.In the Quarter of the NegroesWhere the doorknob lets in LiederMore than German ever bore,Her yesterday past grandpa--Not of her own doing--In a pot of collard greensIs gently stewing.Pushcarts fold and unfoldIn a supermarket sea.And we better find out, mama,Where is the colored laundromatSince we move dup to Mount Vernon.In the pot begind the paper doorson the old iron stove what's cooking?What's smelling, Leontyne?Lieder, lovely LiederAnd a leaf of collard green.Lovely Lieder, Leontyne.You know, right at ChristmasThey asked me if my blackness,Would it rub off?I said, Ask your mama.Dreams and nightmares!Nightmares, dreams, oh!Dreaming that the NegroesOf the South have taken over--Voted all the DixiecratsRight out of power--Comes the COLORED HOUR:Martin Luther King is Governor of Georgia,Dr. Rufus Clement his Chief Adviser,A. Philip Randolph the High Grand Worthy.In white pillared mansionsSitting on their wide verandas,Wealthy Negroes have white servants,White sharecroppers work the black plantations,And colored children have white mammies:Mammy FaubusMammy EastlandMammy WallaceDear, dear darling old white mammies--Sometimes even buried with our family.Dear oldMammy Faubus!Culture, they say, is a two-way street:Hand me my mint julep, mammny.Hurry up!Make haste!",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"15078": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15078,
"poem.id": 15078,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:07:53",
"poem.title": "Freedom's Plow",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "When a man starts out with nothing,When a man starts out with his handsEmpty, but clean,When a man starts to build a world,He starts first with himselfAnd the faith that is in his heart-The strength there,The will there to build.First in the heart is the dream-Then the mind starts seeking a way.His eyes look out on the world,On the great wooded world,On the rich soil of the world,On the rivers of the world.The eyes see there materials for building,See the difficulties, too, and the obstacles.The mind seeks a way to overcome these obstacles.The hand seeks tools to cut the wood,To till the soil, and harness the power of the waters.Then the hand seeks other hands to help,A community of hands to help-Thus the dream becomes not one man’s dream alone,But a community dream.Not my dream alone, but our dream.Not my world alone,But your world and my world,Belonging to all the hands who build.A long time ago, but not too long ago,Ships came from across the seaBringing the Pilgrims and prayer-makers,Adventurers and booty seekers,Free men and indentured servants,Slave men and slave masters, all new-To a new world, America! With billowing sails the galleons cameBringing men and dreams, women and dreams.In little bands together,Heart reaching out to heart,Hand reaching out to hand,They began to build our land.Some were free handsSeeking a greater freedom,Some were indentured handsHoping to find their freedom,Some were slave handsGuarding in their hearts the seed of freedom,But the word was there always:Freedom.Down into the earth went the plowIn the free hands and the slave hands,In indentured hands and adventurous hands,Turning the rich soil went the plow in many handsThat planted and harvested the food that fedAnd the cotton that clothed America.Clang against the trees went the ax into many handsThat hewed and shaped the rooftops of America.Splash into the rivers and the seas went the boat-hullsThat moved and transported America.Crack went the whips that drove the horsesAcross the plains of America.Free hands and slave hands,Indentured hands, adventurous hands,White hands and black handsHeld the plow handles,Ax handles, hammer handles,Launched the boats and whipped the horsesThat fed and housed and moved America.Thus together through labor,All these hands made America.Labor! Out of labor came villagesAnd the towns that grew cities.Labor! Out of labor came the rowboatsAnd the sailboats and the steamboats,Came the wagons, and the coaches,Covered wagons, stage coaches,Out of labor came the factories,Came the foundries, came the railroads.Came the marts and markets, shops and stores,Came the mighty products moulded, manufactured,Sold in shops, piled in warehouses,Shipped the wide world over:Out of labor-white hands and black hands-Came the dream, the strength, the will,And the way to build America.Now it is Me here, and You there.Now it’s Manhattan, Chicago,Seattle, New Orleans,Boston and El Paso-Now it’s the U.S.A.A long time ago, but not too long ago, a man said:ALL MEN ARE CREATED EQUAL- ENDOWED BY THEIR CREATORWITH CERTAIN UNALIENABLE RIGHTS- AMONG THESE LIFE, LIBERTYAND THE PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS.His name was Jefferson. There were slaves then,But in their hearts the slaves believed him, too,And silently took for grantedThat what he said was also meant for them.It was a long time ago,But not so long ago at that, Lincoln said:NO MAN IS GOOD ENOUGHTO GOVERN ANOTHER MANWITHOUT THAT OTHER’S CONSENT.There were slaves then, too,But in their hearts the slaves knewWhat he said must be meant for every human being-Else it had no meaning for anyone.Then a man said:BETTER TO DIE FREETHAN TO LIVE SLAVESHe was a colored man who had been a slaveBut had run away to freedom.And the slaves knewWhat Frederick Douglass said was true.With John Brown at Harper’s Ferry, Negroes died.John Brown was hung.Before the Civil War, days were dark,And nobody knew for sureWhen freedom would triumph'Or if it would,' thought some.But others new it had to triumph.In those dark days of slavery,Guarding in their hearts the seed of freedom,The slaves made up a song:Keep Your Hand On The Plow! Hold On! That song meant just what it said: Hold On! Freedom will come! Keep Your Hand On The Plow! Hold On! Out of war it came, bloody and terrible! But it came! Some there were, as always,Who doubted that the war would end right,That the slaves would be free,Or that the union would stand,But now we know how it all came out.Out of the darkest days for people and a nation,We know now how it came out.There was light when the battle clouds rolled away.There was a great wooded land,And men united as a nation.America is a dream.The poet says it was promises.The people say it is promises-that will come true.The people do not always say things out loud,Nor write them down on paper.The people often holdGreat thoughts in their deepest heartsAnd sometimes only blunderingly express them,Haltingly and stumblingly say them,And faultily put them into practice.The people do not always understand each other.But there is, somewhere there,Always the trying to understand,And the trying to say,'You are a man. Together we are building our land.'America! Land created in common,Dream nourished in common,Keep your hand on the plow! Hold on! If the house is not yet finished,Don’t be discouraged, builder! If the fight is not yet won,Don’t be weary, soldier! The plan and the pattern is here,Woven from the beginningInto the warp and woof of America:ALL MEN ARE CREATED EQUAL.NO MAN IS GOOD ENOUGHTO GOVERN ANOTHER MANWITHOUT HIS CONSENT.BETTER DIE FREE,THAN TO LIVE SLAVES.Who said those things? Americans! Who owns those words? America! Who is America? You, me! We are America! To the enemy who would conquer us from without,We say, NO! To the enemy who would divideAnd conquer us from within,We say, NO! FREEDOM! BROTHERHOOD! DEMOCRACY! To all the enemies of these great words:We say, NO! A long time ago,An enslaved people heading toward freedomMade up a song:Keep Your Hand On The Plow! Hold On! The plow plowed a new furrowAcross the field of history.Into that furrow the freedom seed was dropped.From that seed a tree grew, is growing, will ever grow.That tree is for everybody,For all America, for all the world.May its branches spread and shelter growUntil all races and all peoples know its shade.KEEP YOUR HAND ON THE PLOW! HOLD ON!",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"15079": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15079,
"poem.id": 15079,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:07:58",
"poem.title": "Dinner Guest: Me",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"15080": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15080,
"poem.id": 15080,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:08:04",
"poem.title": "The Dream Keeper",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"15081": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15081,
"poem.id": 15081,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:08:06",
"poem.title": "Daybreak In Alabama",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"15082": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15082,
"poem.id": 15082,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:08:13",
"poem.title": "Bad Morning",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"15083": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15083,
"poem.id": 15083,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:08:18",
"poem.title": "My People",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"15084": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15084,
"poem.id": 15084,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:08:23",
"poem.title": "Suicide's Note",
"poem.date": "9/12/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"15085": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15085,
"poem.id": 15085,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:08:30",
"poem.title": "Children's Rhymes",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"15086": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15086,
"poem.id": 15086,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:08:33",
"poem.title": "Dream Variations",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"15087": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15087,
"poem.id": 15087,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:08:37",
"poem.title": "Life Is Fine",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"15088": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15088,
"poem.id": 15088,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:08:41",
"poem.title": "The Negro Mother",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "Children, I come back today To tell you a story of the long dark way That I had to climb, that I had to know In order that the race might live and grow. Look at my face - dark as the night - Yet shining like the sun with love's true light. I am the dark girl who crossed the red sea Carrying in my body the seed of the free. I am the woman who worked in the field Bringing the cotton and the corn to yield. I am the one who labored as a slave, Beaten and mistreated for the work that I gave - Children sold away from me, I'm husband sold, too. No safety, no love, no respect was I due.Three hundred years in the deepest South: But God put a song and a prayer in my mouth. God put a dream like steel in my soul. Now, through my children, I'm reaching the goal. Now, through my children, young and free, I realized the blessing deed to me. I couldn't read then. I couldn't write. I had nothing, back there in the night. Sometimes, the valley was filled with tears, But I kept trudging on through the lonely years. Sometimes, the road was hot with the sun, But I had to keep on till my work was done: I had to keep on! No stopping for me - I was the seed of the coming Free. I nourished the dream that nothing could smother Deep in my breast - the Negro mother. I had only hope then, but now through you, Dark ones of today, my dreams must come true: All you dark children in the world out there, Remember my sweat, my pain, my despair. Remember my years, heavy with sorrow - And make of those years a torch for tomorrow. Make of my pass a road to the light Out of the darkness, the ignorance, the night. Lift high my banner out of the dust. Stand like free men supporting my trust. Believe in the right, let none push you back. Remember the whip and the slaver's track. Remember how the strong in struggle and strife Still bar you the way, and deny you life - But march ever forward, breaking down bars. Look ever upward at the sun and the stars. Oh, my dark children, may my dreams and my prayers Impel you forever up the great stairs - For I will be with you till no white brother Dares keep down the children of the Negro Mother.",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"15089": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15089,
"poem.id": 15089,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:08:47",
"poem.title": "Dream Deferred",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"15090": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15090,
"poem.id": 15090,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:08:54",
"poem.title": "Democracy",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"15091": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15091,
"poem.id": 15091,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:08:59",
"poem.title": "Let America Be America Again",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "Let America be America again.Let it be the dream it used to be.Let it be the pioneer on the plainSeeking a home where he himself is free.(America never was America to me.)Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed--Let it be that great strong land of loveWhere never kings connive nor tyrants schemeThat any man be crushed by one above.(It never was America to me.)O, let my land be a land where LibertyIs crowned with no false patriotic wreath,But opportunity is real, and life is free,Equality is in the air we breathe.(There's never been equality for me,Nor freedom in this \"homeland of the free.\")Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark? And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart,I am the Negro bearing slavery's scars.I am the red man driven from the land,I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek--And finding only the same old stupid planOf dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.I am the young man, full of strength and hope,Tangled in that ancient endless chainOf profit, power, gain, of grab the land!Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need!Of work the men! Of take the pay!Of owning everything for one's own greed!I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil.I am the worker sold to the machine.I am the Negro, servant to you all.I am the people, humble, hungry, mean--Hungry yet today despite the dream.Beaten yet today--O, Pioneers!I am the man who never got ahead,The poorest worker bartered through the years.Yet I'm the one who dreamt our basic dreamIn the Old World while still a serf of kings,Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true,That even yet its mighty daring singsIn every brick and stone, in every furrow turnedThat's made America the land it has become.O, I'm the man who sailed those early seasIn search of what I meant to be my home--For I'm the one who left dark Ireland's shore,And Poland's plain, and England's grassy lea,And torn from Black Africa's strand I cameTo build a \"homeland of the free.\"The free?Who said the free? Not me?Surely not me? The millions on relief today?The millions shot down when we strike?The millions who have nothing for our pay?For all the dreams we've dreamedAnd all the songs we've sungAnd all the hopes we've heldAnd all the flags we've hung,The millions who have nothing for our pay--Except the dream that's almost dead today.O, let America be America again--The land that never has been yet--And yet must be--the land where every man is free.The land that's mine--the poor man's, Indian's, Negro's, ME--Who made America,Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,Must bring back our mighty dream again.Sure, call me any ugly name you choose--The steel of freedom does not stain.From those who live like leeches on the people's lives,We must take back our land again,America!O, yes,I say it plain,America never was America to me,And yet I swear this oath--America will be!Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death,The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies,We, the people, must redeemThe land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.The mountains and the endless plain--All, all the stretch of these great green states--And make America again!",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"15092": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15092,
"poem.id": 15092,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:09:05",
"poem.title": "Cross",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"15093": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15093,
"poem.id": 15093,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:09:12",
"poem.title": "I, Too",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"15094": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15094,
"poem.id": 15094,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:09:16",
"poem.title": "April Rain Song",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"15095": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15095,
"poem.id": 15095,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:09:20",
"poem.title": "Mother To Son",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"15096": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15096,
"poem.id": 15096,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:09:23",
"poem.title": "As I Grew Older",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
},
"15097": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15097,
"poem.id": 15097,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:09:29",
"poem.title": "Dreams",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Langston Hughes"
}
} |
| 5 | 2018-02-28 20:21:19 | Pablo Neruda | {
"161": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 161,
"poem.id": 161,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:54:41",
"poem.title": "Still Another Day: XVII/Men",
"poem.date": "11/4/2015",
"poem.content": "The truth is in the prologue. Death to the romantic fool,to the expert in solitary confinement,I'm the same as the teacher from Colombia,the rotarian from Philadelphia, the merchantfrom Paysandu who save his silverto come here. We all arrive by different streets,by unequal languages, at Silence.",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"162": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 162,
"poem.id": 162,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:54:47",
"poem.title": "Still Another Day: I",
"poem.date": "11/4/2015",
"poem.content": "Today is that day, the day that carrieda desperate light that since has died.Don't let the squatters know:let's keep it all between us,day, between your belland my secret.Today is dead winter in the forgotten landthat comes to visit me, with a cross on the mapand a volcano in the snow, to return to me,to return again the waterfallen on the roof of my childhood.Today when the sun began with its shaftsto tell the story, so clear, so old,the slanting rain fell like a sword,the rain my hard heart welcomes.You, my love, still asleep in August,my queen, my woman, my vastness, my geographykiss of mud, the carbon-coated zither,you, vestment of my persistent song,today you are reborn again and with the sky'sblack water confuse me and compel me:I must renew my bones in your kingdom,I must still uncloud my earthly duties.",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"163": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 163,
"poem.id": 163,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:54:50",
"poem.title": "Ode To Ironing",
"poem.date": "3/18/2015",
"poem.content": "Poetry is white:it comes from water swathed in drops,it wrinkles and gathers,this planet's skin has to spread out,the sea's whiteness has to be ironed out,and the hands keep moving,the sacred surfaces get smoothed,and things are done this way:the hands make the world every day,fire conjoins with steel,linen, canvas, and cotton arrivefrom the scuffles in the laundries,and from light a dove is born:chastity returns out of the foam.",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"164": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 164,
"poem.id": 164,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:54:56",
"poem.title": "Epithalamium",
"poem.date": "10/20/2015",
"poem.content": "Do you remember whenin winterwe reached the island?The sea raised toward usa crown of cold.On the walls the climbing vinesmurmured lettingdark leaves fallas we passed.You too were a little leafthat trembled on my chest.Life's wind put you there.At first I did not see you: I did not knowthat you were walking with me,until your rootspierced my chestjoined the threads of my bloodspoke through my mouthflourished with me.Thus was your inadvertent presenceinvisible leaf or branchand suddenly my heart was filled with fruits and soundsYou occupied the housethat darkly awaited youand then you lit the lamps....the island of stone and mossechoed in the secret of its grottoeslike the song in your mouthand the flower that was bornbetween the crevices of the stonewith its secret syllablespole, as it passed, your nameof blazing plantand the steep rock raisedlike the wall of the world,knew my song, well beloved,and all things spoke ofyour love, my love, belovedbecause earth, time, sea, islandlife, tidethe seed that half opensits lips in the earththe devouring flowerthe movement of springeverything recognizes us.Our love was bornoutside the wallsin the windin the nightin the earthand that's why the clay and the flowerthe mud and the rootsknow your nameand know that my mouthjoined yoursbecause we were sown together in the earthand we alone did not know itand that we grow togetherand flower togetherand thereforewhen we passyour name is on the petalsof the rose that grows on the stone,my name is in the grottoesThey know it allwe have no secretswe have grown togetherbut we did not know it.The sea knows our love, the stonesof the rocky heightknow that our kisses floweredwith infinite purityas in their crevices a scarletmouth dawnsjust as our love and the kissthat joins your mouth and minein an eternal flower.My love,sweet spring,flower and sea, surround us.We did not change itfor our winterwhen the windbegan to decipher your nameand today at all hours it repeatswhenthe leaves did not knowthat you were a leafwhenthe roots did not know that you were seeking mein my breast.Love, love,springoffers us the skybut the dark earthis our nameour love belongs to all time and the earth.Loving each other, my armbeneath your neck of sandwe shall waitas earth and time changeon the islandas the leaves fallfrom the silent climbing vinesas autumn departsthrough the broken window.But weare going to wait forour friendour red-eyed friendthe fire,when the wind againshakes the frontiers of the islandand does not know the names of everyonewinterwill seek us, my lovealwaysit will seek us, because we know itbecause we do not fear itbecause havewith usfireforever,spring with usforeverand when a leaffallsfrom the climbing vinesyou know, my lovewhat name is written oon that leaf,a names that is yours and mineour love name, a singlebeing, the arrowthat pierced winterthe invincible lovethe fire of the daysa leafthat dropped upon my breasta leaf from the treeof lifethat made a nest and sangthat put out rootsthat gave flowers and fruits.And so you see, my love,how I move around the islandaround the worldsafe in the midst of springcrazy with light in the coldwalking tranquil in the firelifting your petalweight in my armsas if I had never walkedexcpet with you, my heartas if I could not walkexcept with youas if I could not singexcept when you sing.",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"165": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 165,
"poem.id": 165,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:55:01",
"poem.title": "Unity",
"poem.date": "6/18/2015",
"poem.content": "There is something dense, united, settled in the depths,repeating its number, its identical sign.How it is noted that stones have touched time,in their refined matter there is an odor of age,of water brought by the sea, from salt and sleep. I'm encircled by a single thing, a single movement: a mineral weight, a honeyed lightcling to the sound of the word \"noche\":the tint of wheat, of ivory, of tears,things of leather, of wood, of wool,archaic, faded, uniform,collect around me like walls.I work quietly, wheeling over myself,a crow over death, a crow in mourning.I mediate, isolated in the spread of seasons,centric, encircled by a silent geometry:a partial temperature drifts down from the sky,a distant empire of confused unitiesreunites encircling me.",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"166": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 166,
"poem.id": 166,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:55:03",
"poem.title": "Ode to Hope",
"poem.date": "4/20/2015",
"poem.content": "Oceanic dawnat the centerof my life,waves like grapes,the sky's solitude,you fill meand floodthe complete sea,the undiminished sky,tempoand space,sea foam's whitebattalions,the orange earth,the sun'sfiery waistin agony,so manygifts and talents,birds soaring into their dreams,and the sea, the sea,suspendedaroma,chorus of rich, resonant salt,and meanwhile,we men,touch the water,struggling,and hoping,we touch the sea,hoping.And the waves tell the firm coast:'Everything will be fulfilled.'",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"167": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 167,
"poem.id": 167,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:55:08",
"poem.title": "Ode To The Cat",
"poem.date": "1/20/2015",
"poem.content": "The animals were imperfect,long-tailed,unfortunate in their heads.Little by little theyput themselves together,making themselves a landscape,acquiring spots, grace, flight.The cat,only the catappeared complete and proud:he was born completely finished,walking alone and knowing what he wanted.Man wants to be fish or fowl,the snake would like to have wingsthe dog is a disoriented lion,the engineer would like to be a poet,the fly studies to be a swift,the poet tries to imitate the fly,but the catonly wants to be a catand any cat is a catfrom his whiskers to his tail,from his hopeful vision of a ratto the real thing,from the night to his golden eyes.There is no unitylike him,the moon and the flowerdo not have such context:he is just one thinglike the sun or the topaz,and the elastic line of his contoursis firm and subtle likethe line of a ship's prow.His yellow eyeshave just onegrooveto coin the gold of night time.Oh littleemperor without a sphere of influenceconqueror without a country,smallest living-room tiger, nuptialsultan of the sky,of the erotic roof-tiles,the wind of lovein the stormyou claimwhen you passand placefour delicate feeton the ground,smelling,distrustingall that is terrestrial,because everythingis too uncleanfor the immaculate foot of the cat.Oh independent wild beastof the housearrogantvestige of the night,lazy, gymnasticand alien,very deep cat,secret policemanof bedrooms,insigniaof adisappeared velvet,surely there is noenigmain your manner,perhaps you are not a mystery,everyone knows of youand you belongto the least mysterious inhabitant,perhaps everyone believes it,everyone believes himself the owner,proprietor,uncleof a cat,companion,colleague,discipleor friendof his cat.Not me.I do not subscribe.I do not know the cat.I know it all, life and its archipelago,the sea and the incalculable city,botany,the gyneceum and its frenzies,the plus and the minus of mathematics,the volcanic frauds of the world,the unreal shell of the crocodile,the unknown kindness of the fireman,the blue atavism of the priest,but I cannot decipher a cat.My reason slips on his indifference,his eyes have golden numbers.",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"168": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 168,
"poem.id": 168,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:55:13",
"poem.title": "Come With Me, I Said, And No One Knew (VII)",
"poem.date": "9/9/2015",
"poem.content": "Come with me, I said, and no one knewwhere, or how my pain throbbed,no carnations or barcaroles for me, only a wound that love had opened.I said it again: Come with me, as if I were dying,and no one saw the moon that bled in my mouthor the blood that rose into the silence.O Love, now we can forget the star that has such thorns!That is why when I heard your voice repeatCome with me, it was as if you had let loosethe grief, the love, the fury of a cork-trapped winethe geysers flooding from deep in its vault:in my mouth I felt the taste of fire again,of blood and carnations, of rock and scald.",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"169": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 169,
"poem.id": 169,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:55:16",
"poem.title": "Ode To Age",
"poem.date": "5/14/2015",
"poem.content": "I don't believe in age.All old peoplecarryin their eyes,a child,and children,at timesobserve us with theeyes of wise ancients.Shall we measurelifein meters or kilometersor months?How far since you were born?How longmust you wanderuntillike all meninstead of walking on its surfacewe rest below the earth?To the man, to the womanwho utilized theirenergies, goodness, strength,anger, love, tenderness,to those who trulyaliveflowered,and in their sensuality matured,let us not applythe measureof a timethat may besomething else, a mineralmantle, a solarbird, a flower,something, maybe,but not a measure.Time, metalor bird, longpetiolate flower,stretchthroughman's life,shower himwith blossomsand withbrightwateror with hidden sun.I proclaim youroad,not shroud,a pristineladderwith treadsof air,a suit lovinglyrenewedthrough springtimesaround the world.Now,time, I roll you up,I deposit you in mybait boxand I am off to fishwith your long linethe fishes of the dawn!translated from the Spanish by Margaret Sayers Peden",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"170": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 170,
"poem.id": 170,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:55:18",
"poem.title": "The Portrait In The Rock",
"poem.date": "3/22/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"171": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 171,
"poem.id": 171,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:55:23",
"poem.title": "The Men",
"poem.date": "3/22/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"172": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 172,
"poem.id": 172,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:55:27",
"poem.title": "The House Of Odes",
"poem.date": "3/22/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"173": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 173,
"poem.id": 173,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:55:30",
"poem.title": "Oda Al Tomate",
"poem.date": "3/29/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"174": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 174,
"poem.id": 174,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:55:36",
"poem.title": "Waltz",
"poem.date": "3/22/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"175": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 175,
"poem.id": 175,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:55:39",
"poem.title": "The People",
"poem.date": "3/22/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"176": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 176,
"poem.id": 176,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:55:45",
"poem.title": "The Old Women Of The Ocean",
"poem.date": "3/22/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"177": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 177,
"poem.id": 177,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:55:50",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Ix: There Where The Waves Shatter",
"poem.date": "3/22/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"178": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 178,
"poem.id": 178,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:55:54",
"poem.title": "Soneto Xvii",
"poem.date": "3/29/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"179": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 179,
"poem.id": 179,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:55:57",
"poem.title": "What Spain Was Like",
"poem.date": "3/22/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"180": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 180,
"poem.id": 180,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:56:00",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Xiii:The Light That Rises From Your Feet To Your Hair",
"poem.date": "3/22/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"181": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 181,
"poem.id": 181,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:56:05",
"poem.title": "Lxxxiv From: ‘cien Sonetos De Amor’",
"poem.date": "3/22/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"182": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 182,
"poem.id": 182,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:56:11",
"poem.title": "The Tree Is Here, Still, In Pure Stone",
"poem.date": "3/22/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"183": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 183,
"poem.id": 183,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:56:16",
"poem.title": "Poor Creatures",
"poem.date": "3/29/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"184": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 184,
"poem.id": 184,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:56:20",
"poem.title": "Triangles",
"poem.date": "3/22/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"185": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 185,
"poem.id": 185,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:56:23",
"poem.title": "Lone Gentleman",
"poem.date": "3/29/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"186": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 186,
"poem.id": 186,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:56:26",
"poem.title": "Ode To Tomatoes",
"poem.date": "3/22/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"187": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 187,
"poem.id": 187,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:56:32",
"poem.title": "The United Fruit Co.",
"poem.date": "3/22/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"188": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 188,
"poem.id": 188,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:56:35",
"poem.title": "Ode To Clothes",
"poem.date": "3/22/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"189": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 189,
"poem.id": 189,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:56:39",
"poem.title": "Song Of Despair",
"poem.date": "3/22/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"190": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 190,
"poem.id": 190,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:56:42",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Viii: If Your Eyes Were Not The Color Of The Moon",
"poem.date": "3/29/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"191": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 191,
"poem.id": 191,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:56:45",
"poem.title": "Poet's Obligation",
"poem.date": "3/22/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"192": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 192,
"poem.id": 192,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:56:52",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Lxxiii: Maybe You'Ll Remember",
"poem.date": "3/22/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"193": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 193,
"poem.id": 193,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:56:56",
"poem.title": "From The Heights Of Maccho Picchu",
"poem.date": "3/22/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"194": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 194,
"poem.id": 194,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:57:07",
"poem.title": "The Eighth Of September",
"poem.date": "3/22/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"195": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 195,
"poem.id": 195,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:57:10",
"poem.title": "Walking Around (Original Spanish)",
"poem.date": "3/29/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"196": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 196,
"poem.id": 196,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:57:15",
"poem.title": "Potter",
"poem.date": "3/22/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"197": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 197,
"poem.id": 197,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:57:17",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Xlii: I Hunt For A Sign Of You",
"poem.date": "3/22/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"198": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 198,
"poem.id": 198,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:57:20",
"poem.title": "Leave Me A Place Underground",
"poem.date": "3/29/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"199": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 199,
"poem.id": 199,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:57:24",
"poem.title": "Gautama Christ",
"poem.date": "3/22/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"200": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 200,
"poem.id": 200,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:57:28",
"poem.title": "Finale",
"poem.date": "3/22/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15130": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15130,
"poem.id": 15130,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:09:33",
"poem.title": "The Fickle One",
"poem.date": "3/22/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15135": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15135,
"poem.id": 15135,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:09:39",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Xcv:Who Ever Desired Each Other As We Do",
"poem.date": "3/22/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15136": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15136,
"poem.id": 15136,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:09:44",
"poem.title": "The Fear",
"poem.date": "3/22/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15137": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15137,
"poem.id": 15137,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:09:48",
"poem.title": "Poesia",
"poem.date": "3/29/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15138": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15138,
"poem.id": 15138,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:09:49",
"poem.title": "The Queen",
"poem.date": "3/29/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15140": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15140,
"poem.id": 15140,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:09:51",
"poem.title": "Castro Alves From Brazil",
"poem.date": "3/22/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15141": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15141,
"poem.id": 15141,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:09:54",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Lxxxi: Rest With Your Dream Inside My Dream",
"poem.date": "3/29/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15142": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15142,
"poem.id": 15142,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:10:00",
"poem.title": "I Like For You To Be Still",
"poem.date": "3/21/2014",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15143": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15143,
"poem.id": 15143,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:10:03",
"poem.title": "The Insect",
"poem.date": "3/22/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15144": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15144,
"poem.id": 15144,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:10:06",
"poem.title": "Luminous Mind, Bright Devil",
"poem.date": "3/22/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15145": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15145,
"poem.id": 15145,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:10:08",
"poem.title": "Entrance Of The Rivers",
"poem.date": "3/22/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15146": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15146,
"poem.id": 15146,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:10:12",
"poem.title": "Ode To The Artichoke",
"poem.date": "3/22/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15147": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15147,
"poem.id": 15147,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:10:17",
"poem.title": "So That You Will Hear Me",
"poem.date": "3/22/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15148": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15148,
"poem.id": 15148,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:10:20",
"poem.title": "Chant To Bolivar",
"poem.date": "7/8/2009",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15151": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15151,
"poem.id": 15151,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:10:25",
"poem.title": "La Muerta",
"poem.date": "3/29/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15152": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15152,
"poem.id": 15152,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:10:29",
"poem.title": "Tell Me, Is The Rose Naked?",
"poem.date": "3/22/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15154": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15154,
"poem.id": 15154,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:10:32",
"poem.title": "Algunas Bestias",
"poem.date": "3/29/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15155": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15155,
"poem.id": 15155,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:10:38",
"poem.title": "Enigma With Flower",
"poem.date": "3/22/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15156": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15156,
"poem.id": 15156,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:10:39",
"poem.title": "Ode To Bird Watching",
"poem.date": "3/22/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15157": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15157,
"poem.id": 15157,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:10:43",
"poem.title": "Lost In The Forest",
"poem.date": "3/29/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15158": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15158,
"poem.id": 15158,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:10:50",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Xxvii: Naked You Are As Simple As One Of Your Hands",
"poem.date": "3/22/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15159": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15159,
"poem.id": 15159,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:10:55",
"poem.title": "The Night In Isla Negra",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15160": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15160,
"poem.id": 15160,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:11:00",
"poem.title": "The Wide Ocean",
"poem.date": "3/22/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15161": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15161,
"poem.id": 15161,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:11:06",
"poem.title": "Ode To My Socks",
"poem.date": "3/22/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15162": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15162,
"poem.id": 15162,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:11:09",
"poem.title": "Love, We'Re Going Home Now",
"poem.date": "3/22/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15163": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15163,
"poem.id": 15163,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:11:11",
"poem.title": "Tie Your Heart At Night To Mine, Love,",
"poem.date": "3/22/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15164": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15164,
"poem.id": 15164,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:11:15",
"poem.title": "The Weary One",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15165": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15165,
"poem.id": 15165,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:11:17",
"poem.title": "‘march Days Return With Their Covert Light’",
"poem.date": "3/22/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15166": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15166,
"poem.id": 15166,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:11:24",
"poem.title": "I Like You Calm, As If You Were Absent",
"poem.date": "3/22/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15167": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15167,
"poem.id": 15167,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:11:27",
"poem.title": "Ode To A Naked Beauty",
"poem.date": "3/22/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15168": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15168,
"poem.id": 15168,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:11:30",
"poem.title": "Ode To Broken Things",
"poem.date": "3/22/2010",
"poem.content": "Things get broken at home like they were pushed by an invisible, deliberate smasher. It's not my hands or yours It wasn't the girls with their hard fingernails or the motion of the planet. It wasn't anything or anybody It wasn't the wind It wasn't the orange-colored noontime Or night over the earth It wasn't even the nose or the elbow Or the hips getting bigger or the ankle or the air. The plate broke, the lamp fell All the flower pots tumbled over one by one. That pot which overflowed with scarlet in the middle of October, it got tired from all the violets and another empty one rolled round and round and round all through winter until it was only the powder of a flowerpot, a broken memory, shining dust. And that clock whose sound was the voice of our lives, the secret thread of our weeks, which released one by one, so many hours for honey and silence for so many births and jobs, that clock also fell and its delicate blue guts vibrated among the broken glass its wide heart unsprung. Life goes on grinding up glass, wearing out clothes making fragments breaking down forms and what lasts through time is like an island on a ship in the sea, perishable surrounded by dangerous fragility by merciless waters and threats. Let's put all our treasures together -- the clocks, plates, cups cracked by the cold -- into a sack and carry them to the sea and let our possessions sink into one alarming breaker that sounds like a river. May whatever breaks be reconstructed by the sea with the long labor of its tides. So many useless things which nobody broke but which got broken anyway",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15169": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15169,
"poem.id": 15169,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:11:35",
"poem.title": "La Reina (And Translation)",
"poem.date": "3/29/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15170": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15170,
"poem.id": 15170,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:11:41",
"poem.title": "Your Hands",
"poem.date": "3/22/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15171": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15171,
"poem.id": 15171,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:11:44",
"poem.title": "Poor Fellows",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15172": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15172,
"poem.id": 15172,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:11:46",
"poem.title": "Sonata",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15173": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15173,
"poem.id": 15173,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:11:50",
"poem.title": "In You The Earth",
"poem.date": "3/22/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15174": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15174,
"poem.id": 15174,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:11:55",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Viii",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15175": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15175,
"poem.id": 15175,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:11:58",
"poem.title": "Ode To Maize",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "America, from a grainof maize you grewto crownwith spacious landsthe ocean foam.A grain of maize was your geography.From the graina green lance rose,was covered with gold,to grace the heightsof Peru with its yellow tassels.But, poet, lethistory rest in its shroud;praise with your lyrethe grain in its granaries:sing to the simple maize in the kitchen.First, a fine beardfluttered in the fieldabove the tender teethof the young ear.Then the husks partedand fruitfulness burst its veilsof pale papyrusthat grains of laughtermight fall upon the earth.To the stone,in your journey,you returned.Not to the terrible stone,the bloodytriangle of Mexican death,but to the grinding stone,sacredstone of your kitchens.There, milk and matter,strength-giving, nutritiouscornmeal pulp,you were worked and pattedby the wondrous handsof dark-skinned women.Wherever you fall, maize,whether into thesplendid pot of partridge, or amongcountry beans, you light upthe meal and lend ityour virginal flavor.Oh, to bite intothe steaming ear beside the seaof distant song and deepest waltz.To boil youas your aromaspreads throughblue sierras.But is thereno endto your treasure?In chalky, barren landsborderedby the sea, alongthe rocky Chilean coast,at timesonly your radiancereaches the emptytable of the miner.Your light, your cornmeal, your hopepervades America's solitudes,and to hungeryour lancesare enemy legions.Within your husks,like gentle kernels,our sober provincialchildren's hearts were nurtured,until life beganto shuck us from the ear.",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15176": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15176,
"poem.id": 15176,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:12:02",
"poem.title": "Lovely One",
"poem.date": "3/22/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15177": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15177,
"poem.id": 15177,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:12:07",
"poem.title": "Tower Of Light",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15178": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15178,
"poem.id": 15178,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:12:10",
"poem.title": "The Dictators",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15179": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15179,
"poem.id": 15179,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:12:14",
"poem.title": "The White Mans Burden",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15180": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15180,
"poem.id": 15180,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:12:18",
"poem.title": "Some Beasts",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15181": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15181,
"poem.id": 15181,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:12:26",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Xxxiv (You Are The Daughter Of The Sea)",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15182": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15182,
"poem.id": 15182,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:12:29",
"poem.title": "Magellanic Penguin",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15183": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15183,
"poem.id": 15183,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:12:32",
"poem.title": "I Remember You As You Were",
"poem.date": "3/22/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15184": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15184,
"poem.id": 15184,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:12:36",
"poem.title": "Here I Love You",
"poem.date": "3/22/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15185": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15185,
"poem.id": 15185,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:12:40",
"poem.title": "The Song Of Despair",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15186": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15186,
"poem.id": 15186,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:12:44",
"poem.title": "Death Alone",
"poem.date": "3/22/2010",
"poem.content": "There are lone cemeteries,tombs full of soundless bones,the heart threading a tunnel,a dark, dark tunnel : like a wreck we die to the very core,as if drowning at the heartor collapsing inwards from skin to soul.There are corpses,clammy slabs for feet,there is death in the bones,like a pure sound,a bark without its dog,out of certain bells, certain tombsswelling in this humidity like lament or rain.I see, when alone at times,coffins under sailsetting out with the pale dead, women in their dead braids,bakers as white as angels,thoughtful girls married to notaries,coffins ascending the vertical river of the dead,the wine-dark river to its source,with their sails swollen with the sound of death,filled with the silent noise of death.Death is drawn to soundlike a slipper without a foot, a suit without its wearer,comes to knock with a ring, stoneless and fingerless,comes to shout without a mouth, a tongue, without a throat.Nevertheless its footsteps soundand its clothes echo, hushed like a tree.I do not know, I am ignorant, I hardly seebut it seems to me that its song has the colour of wet violets,violets well used to the earth,since the face of death is green,and the gaze of death greenwith the etched moisture of a violet's leafand its grave colour of exasperated winter.But death goes about the earth also, riding a broomlapping the ground in search of the dead - death is in the broom,it is the tongue of death looking for the dead,the needle of death looking for the thread.Death lies in our beds : in the lazy mattresses, the black blankets,lives a full stretch and then suddenly blows,blows sound unknown filling out the sheetsand there are beds sailing into a harbour where death is waiting, dressed as an admiral.",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15187": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15187,
"poem.id": 15187,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:12:47",
"poem.title": "Ode To A Large Tuna In The Market",
"poem.date": "1/20/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15188": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15188,
"poem.id": 15188,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:12:52",
"poem.title": "Ode To Salt",
"poem.date": "1/20/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15189": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15189,
"poem.id": 15189,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:12:58",
"poem.title": "It’s Good To Feel You Are Close To Me",
"poem.date": "3/22/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15190": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15190,
"poem.id": 15190,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:13:01",
"poem.title": "Ode To Wine",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "Day-colored wine,night-colored wine,wine with purple feetor wine with topaz blood,wine,starry childof earth,wine, smoothas a golden sword,softas lascivious velvet,wine, spiral-seashelledand full of wonder,amorous,marine;never has one goblet contained you,one song, one man,you are choral, gregarious,at the least, you must be shared.At timesyou feed on mortalmemories;your wave carries usfrom tomb to tomb,stonecutter of icy sepulchers,and we weeptransitory tears;yourgloriousspring dressis different,blood rises through the shoots,wind incites the day,nothing is leftof your immutable soul.Winestirs the spring, happinessbursts through the earth like a plant,walls crumble,and rocky cliffs,chasms close,as song is born.A jug of wine, and thou beside mein the wilderness,sang the ancient poet.Let the wine pitcheradd to the kiss of love its own.My darling, suddenlythe line of your hipbecomes the brimming curveof the wine goblet,your breast is the grape cluster,your nipples are the grapes,the gleam of spirits lights your hair,and your navel is a chaste sealstamped on the vessel of your belly,your love an inexhaustiblecascade of wine,light that illuminates my senses,the earthly splendor of life.But you are more than love,the fiery kiss,the heat of fire,more than the wine of life;you arethe community of man,translucency,chorus of discipline,abundance of flowers.I like on the table,when we're speaking,the light of a bottleof intelligent wine.Drink it,and remember in everydrop of gold,in every topaz glass,in every purple ladle,that autumn laboredto fill the vessel with wine;and in the ritual of his office,let the simple man rememberto think of the soil and of his duty,to propagate the canticle of the wine.",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15191": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15191,
"poem.id": 15191,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:13:08",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Xi",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15192": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15192,
"poem.id": 15192,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:13:14",
"poem.title": "‘in The Wave-Strike Over Unquiet Stones’",
"poem.date": "3/22/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15193": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15193,
"poem.id": 15193,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:13:19",
"poem.title": "Love Sonnet XVII",
"poem.date": "3/29/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15194": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15194,
"poem.id": 15194,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:13:20",
"poem.title": "Ode To The Book",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "When I close a bookI open life.I hearfaltering criesamong harbours.Copper ignotsslide down sand-pitsto Tocopilla.Night time.Among the islandsour oceanthrobs with fish,touches the feet, the thighs,the chalk ribsof my country.The whole of nightclings to its shores, by dawnit wakes up singingas if it had excited a guitar.The ocean's surge is calling.The windcalls meand Rodriguez calls,and Jose Antonio--I got a telegramfrom the \"Mine\" Unionand the one I love(whose name I won't let out)expects me in Bucalemu.No book has been ableto wrap me in paper,to fill me upwith typography,with heavenly imprintsor was ever ableto bind my eyes,I come out of books to people orchardswith the hoarse family of my song,to work the burning metalsor to eat smoked beefby mountain firesides.I love adventurousbooks,books of forest or snow,depth or skybut hatethe spider book in which thoughthas laid poisonous wiresto trap the juvenileand circling fly.Book, let me go.I won't go clothedin volumes,I don't come outof collected works,my poemshave not eaten poems--they devourexciting happenings,feed on rough weather,and dig their foodout of earth and men.I'm on my waywith dust in my shoesfree of mythology:send books back to their shelves,I'm going down into the streets.I learned about lifefrom life itself,love I learned in a single kissand could teach no one anythingexcept that I have livedwith something in common among men,when fighting with them,when saying all their say in my song.",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15195": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15195,
"poem.id": 15195,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:13:26",
"poem.title": "I Crave Your Mouth, Your Voice, Your Hair",
"poem.date": "5/5/2011",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15196": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15196,
"poem.id": 15196,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:13:29",
"poem.title": "Puedo Escribir",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.Escribir, por ejemplo: 'La noche está estrellada,y tiritan, azules, los astros, a lo lejos.'El viento de la noche gira en el cielo y canta.Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.Yo la quise, y a veces ella también me quiso.En las noches como ésta la tuve entre mis brazos.La besé tantas veces bajo el cielo infinito.Ella me quiso, a veces yo también la quería.Cómo no haber amado sus grandes ojos fijos.Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.Pensar que no la tengo. Sentir que la he perdido.Oir la noche inmensa, más inmnesa sin ella.Y el verso cae al alma como al pasto el rocío.Qué importa que mi amor no pudiera guadarla.La noche está estrellada y ella no está conmigo.Eso es todo. A lo lejos alguien canta. A lo lejos.Mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido.Como para acercarla mi mirada la busca.Mi corazón la busca, y ella no está conmigo.La misma noche que hace blanquear los mismos árboles.Nosotros, los de entonces, ya no somos los mismos.Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero cuánto la quise.Mi voz buscaba el viento para tocar su oído.De otro. Será de otro. Como antes de mis besos.Su voz, su cuerpo claro. Sus ojos infinitos.Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero tal vez la quiero.Es tan corto el amor, y es tan largo el olvido.Porque en noches como ésta la tuve entre mis brazos,mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido.Aunque éste sea el último dolor que ella me causa,y éstos sean los últimos versos que yo le escribo.",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15197": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15197,
"poem.id": 15197,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:13:31",
"poem.title": "The Question",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15198": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15198,
"poem.id": 15198,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:13:35",
"poem.title": "The Dead Woman",
"poem.date": "1/10/2005",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15199": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15199,
"poem.id": 15199,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:13:39",
"poem.title": "Walking Around",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "It so happens I am sick of being a man.And it happens that I walk into tailorshops and movie housesdried up, waterproof, like a swan made of feltsteering my way in a water of wombs and ashes.The smell of barbershops makes me break into hoarse sobs.The only thing I want is to lie still like stones or wool.The only thing I want is to see no more stores, no gardens,no more goods, no spectacles, no elevators.It so happens that I am sick of my feet and my nailsand my hair and my shadow.It so happens I am sick of being a man.Still it would be marvelousto terrify a law clerk with a cut lily,or kill a nun with a blow on the ear.It would be greatto go through the streets with a green knifeletting out yells until I died of the cold.I don't want to go on being a root in the dark,insecure, stretched out, shivering with sleep,going on down, into the moist guts of the earth,taking in and thinking, eating every day.I don't want so much misery.I don't want to go on as a root and a tomb,alone under the ground, a warehouse with corpses,half frozen, dying of grief.That's why Monday, when it sees me comingwith my convict face, blazes up like gasoline,and it howls on its way like a wounded wheel,and leaves tracks full of warm blood leading toward the night.And it pushes me into certain corners, into some moist houses,into hospitals where the bones fly out the window,into shoeshops that smell like vinegar,and certain streets hideous as cracks in the skin.There are sulphur-colored birds, and hideous intestineshanging over the doors of houses that I hate,and there are false teeth forgotten in a coffeepot,there are mirrorsthat ought to have wept from shame and terror,there are umbrellas everywhere, and venoms, and umbilical cords. I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes,my rage, forgetting everything,I walk by, going through office buildings and orthopedic shops,and courtyards with washing hanging from the line:underwear, towels and shirts from which slowdirty tears are falling.Translated by Robert Bly",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15200": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15200,
"poem.id": 15200,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:13:42",
"poem.title": "Water",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15201": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15201,
"poem.id": 15201,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:13:46",
"poem.title": "Brown And Agile Child",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "Your browser does not support the audio element.",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15202": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15202,
"poem.id": 15202,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:13:48",
"poem.title": "Ode To Sadness",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15203": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15203,
"poem.id": 15203,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:13:53",
"poem.title": "Absence",
"poem.date": "3/22/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15204": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15204,
"poem.id": 15204,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:13:56",
"poem.title": "Fleas Interest Me So Much",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15205": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15205,
"poem.id": 15205,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:14:01",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Lxxxi",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15206": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15206,
"poem.id": 15206,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:14:05",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Xxv",
"poem.date": "4/5/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15207": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15207,
"poem.id": 15207,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:14:08",
"poem.title": "The Light Wraps You",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15208": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15208,
"poem.id": 15208,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:14:10",
"poem.title": "Cat's Dream",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15209": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15209,
"poem.id": 15209,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:14:15",
"poem.title": "Leaning Into The Afternoons",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15210": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15210,
"poem.id": 15210,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:14:20",
"poem.title": "From The Book Of Questions",
"poem.date": "1/20/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15211": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15211,
"poem.id": 15211,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:14:26",
"poem.title": "Gentleman Alone",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "The young maricones and the horny muchachas,The big fat widows delirious from insomnia,The young wives thirty hours' pregnant,And the hoarse tomcats that cross my garden at night,Like a collar of palpitating sexual oystersSurround my solitary home,Enemies of my soul,Conspirators in pajamasWho exchange deep kisses for passwords.Radiant summer brings out the loversIn melancholy regiments,Fat and thin and happy and sad couples;Under the elegant coconut palms, near the ocean and moon,There is a continual life of pants and panties,A hum from the fondling of silk stockings,And women's breasts that glisten like eyes.The salary man, after a while,After the week's tedium, and the novels read in bed at night,Has decisively fucked his neighbor,And now takes her to the miserable movies,Where the heroes are horses or passionate princes,And he caresses her legs covered with sweet downWith his ardent and sweaty palms that smell like cigarettes.The night of the hunter and the night of the husbandCome together like bed sheets and bury me,And the hours after lunch, when the students and priests are masturbating,And the animals mount each other openly,And the bees smell of blood, and the flies buzz cholerically,And cousins play strange games with cousins,And doctors glower at the husband of the young patient,And the early morning in which the professor, without a thought,Pays his conjugal debt and eats breakfast,And to top it all off, the adulterers, who love each other trulyOn beds big and tall as ships:So, eternally,This twisted and breathing forest crushes meWith gigantic flowers like mouth and teethAnd black roots like fingernails and shoes.Translated by Mike Topp",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15212": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15212,
"poem.id": 15212,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:14:32",
"poem.title": "Lost In The Forest...",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15213": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15213,
"poem.id": 15213,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:14:38",
"poem.title": "‘perhaps Not To Be Is To Be Without Your Being.’",
"poem.date": "3/22/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15214": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15214,
"poem.id": 15214,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:14:40",
"poem.title": "Nothing But Death",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "There are cemeteries that are lonely,graves full of bones that do not make a sound,the heart moving through a tunnel,in it darkness, darkness, darkness,like a shipwreck we die going into ourselves,as though we were drowning inside our hearts,as though we lived falling out of the skin into the soul.And there are corpses,feet made of cold and sticky clay,death is inside the bones,like a barking where there are no dogs,coming out from bells somewhere, from graves somewhere,growing in the damp air like tears of rain.Sometimes I see alonecoffins under sail,embarking with the pale dead, with women that have dead hair,with bakers who are as white as angels,and pensive young girls married to notary publics,caskets sailing up the vertical river of the dead,the river of dark purple,moving upstream with sails filled out by the sound of death,filled by the sound of death which is silence.Death arrives among all that soundlike a shoe with no foot in it, like a suit with no man in it,comes and knocks, using a ring with no stone in it, with no finger in it,comes and shouts with no mouth, with no tongue, with no throat.Nevertheless its steps can be heardand its clothing makes a hushed sound, like a tree.I'm not sure, I understand only a little, I can hardly see,but it seems to me that its singing has the color of damp violets,of violets that are at home in the earth,because the face of death is green,and the look death gives is green,with the penetrating dampness of a violet leafand the somber color of embittered winter.But death also goes through the world dressed as a broom,lapping the floor, looking for dead bodies,death is inside the broom,the broom is the tongue of death looking for corpses,it is the needle of death looking for thread.Death is inside the folding cots:it spends its life sleeping on the slow mattresses,in the black blankets, and suddenly breathes out:it blows out a mournful sound that swells the sheets,and the beds go sailing toward a portwhere death is waiting, dressed like an admiral.Translated by Robert Bly",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15215": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15215,
"poem.id": 15215,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:14:44",
"poem.title": "‘carnal Apple, Woman Filled, Burning Moon,’",
"poem.date": "3/22/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15216": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15216,
"poem.id": 15216,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:14:51",
"poem.title": "We Are Many",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "Of the many men whom I am, whom we are,I cannot settle on a single one.They are lost to me under the cover of clothingThey have departed for another city.When everything seems to be setto show me off as a man of intelligence,the fool I keep concealed on my persontakes over my talk and occupies my mouth.On other occasions, I am dozing in the midstof people of some distinction,and when I summon my courageous self,a coward completely unknown to meswaddles my poor skeletonin a thousand tiny reservations.When a stately home bursts into flames,instead of the fireman I summon,an arsonist bursts on the scene,and he is I. There is nothing I can do.What must I do to distinguish myself?How can I put myself together?All the books I readlionize dazzling hero figures,brimming with self-assurance.I die with envy of them;and, in films where bullets fly on the wind,I am left in envy of the cowboys,left admiring even the horses.But when I call upon my DASHING BEING,out comes the same OLD LAZY SELF,and so I never know just WHO I AM,nor how many I am, nor WHO WE WILL BE BEING.I would like to be able to touch a belland call up my real self, the truly me,because if I really need my proper self,I must not allow myself to disappear.While I am writing, I am far away;and when I come back, I have already left.I should like to see if the same thing happensto other people as it does to me,to see if as many people are as I am,and if they seem the same way to themselves.When this problem has been thoroughly explored,I am going to school myself so well in thingsthat, when I try to explain my problems,I shall speak, not of self, but of geography.",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15217": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15217,
"poem.id": 15217,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:14:56",
"poem.title": "Always",
"poem.date": "3/22/2010",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15218": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15218,
"poem.id": 15218,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:14:58",
"poem.title": "Love",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15219": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15219,
"poem.id": 15219,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:15:00",
"poem.title": "Canto Xii From The Heights Of Macchu Picchu",
"poem.date": "1/20/2003",
"poem.content": "Arise to birth with me, my brother.Give me your hand out of the depthssown by your sorrows.You will not return from these stone fastnesses.You will not emerge from subterranean time.Your rasping voice will not come back,nor your pierced eyes rise from their sockets.Look at me from the depths of the earth,tiller of fields, weaver, reticent shepherd,groom of totemic guanacos,mason high on your treacherous scaffolding,iceman of Andean tears,jeweler with crushed fingers,farmer anxious among his seedlings,potter wasted among his clays--bring to the cup of this new lifeyour ancient buried sorrows.Show me your blood and your furrow;say to me: here I was scourgedbecause a gem was dull or because the earthfailed to give up in time its tithe of corn or stone.Point out to me the rock on which you stumbled,the wood they used to crucify your body.Strike the old flintsto kindle ancient lamps, light up the whipsglued to your wounds throughout the centuriesand light the axes gleaming with your blood.I come to speak for your dead mouths.Throughout the earthlet dead lips congregate,out of the depths spin this long night to meas if I rode at anchor here with you.And tell me everything, tell chain by chain,and link by link, and step by step;sharpen the knives you kept hidden away,thrust them into my breast, into my hands,like a torrent of sunbursts,an Amazon of buried jaguars,and leave me cry: hours, days and years,blind ages, stellar centuries.And give me silence, give me water, hope.Give me the struggle, the iron, the volcanoes.Let bodies cling like magnets to my body.Come quickly to my veins and to my mouth.Speak through my speech, and through my blood.",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15220": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15220,
"poem.id": 15220,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:15:06",
"poem.title": "Fable Of The Mermaid And The Drunks",
"poem.date": "1/25/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15221": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15221,
"poem.id": 15221,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:15:10",
"poem.title": "Saddest Poem",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15222": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15222,
"poem.id": 15222,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:15:14",
"poem.title": "Poetry",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15223": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15223,
"poem.id": 15223,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:15:19",
"poem.title": "Enigmas",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15224": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15224,
"poem.id": 15224,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:15:21",
"poem.title": "Your Feet",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15225": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15225,
"poem.id": 15225,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:15:27",
"poem.title": "The Saddest Poem",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15226": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15226,
"poem.id": 15226,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:15:33",
"poem.title": "And Because Love Battles",
"poem.date": "9/6/2006",
"poem.content": "And because love battlesnot only in its burning agriculturesbut also in the mouth of men and women,I will finish off by taking the path awayto those who between my chest and your fragrancewant to interpose their obscure plant.About me, nothing worsethey will tell you, my love,than what I told you.I lived in the prairiesbefore I got to know youand I did not wait love but I waslaying in wait for and I jumped on the rose.What more can they tell you?I am neither good nor bad but a man,and they will then associate the dangerof my life, which you knowand which with your passion you shared.And good, this dangeris danger of love, of complete lovefor all life,for all lives,and if this love brings usthe death and the prisons,I am sure that your big eyes,as when I kiss them,will then close with pride,into double pride, love,with your pride and my pride.But to my ears they will come beforeto wear down the tourof the sweet and hard love which binds us,and they will say: “The oneyou love,is not a woman for you,Why do you love her? I thinkyou could find one more beautiful,more serious, more deep,more other, you understand me, look how she’s light,and what a head she has,and look at how she dresses,and etcetera and etcetera”.And I in these lines say:Like this I want you, love,love, Like this I love you,as you dressand how your hair lifts upand how your mouth smiles,light as the waterof the spring upon the pure stones,Like this I love you, beloved.To bread I do not ask to teach mebut only not to lack during every day of life.I don’t know anything about light, from whereit comes nor where it goes,I only want the light to light up,I do not ask to the nightexplanations,I wait for it and it envelops me,And so you, bread and lightAnd shadow are.You came to my lifewith what you were bringing,madeof light and bread and shadow I expected you,and Like this I need you,Like this I love you,and to those who want to hear tomorrowthat which I will not tell them, let them read it here,and let them back off today because it is earlyfor these arguments.Tomorrow we will only give thema leaf of the tree of our love, a leafwhich will fall on the earthlike if it had been made by our lipslike a kiss which fallsfrom our invincible heightsto show the fire and the tendernessof a true love.",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15227": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15227,
"poem.id": 15227,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:15:36",
"poem.title": "I'M Explaining A Few Things",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "You are going to ask: and where are the lilacs?and the poppy-petalled metaphysics?and the rain repeatedly spatteringits words and drilling them fullof apertures and birds?I'll tell you all the news.I lived in a suburb,a suburb of Madrid, with bells,and clocks, and trees.From there you could look outover Castille's dry face:a leather ocean.My house was calledthe house of flowers, because in every crannygeraniums burst: it wasa good-looking housewith its dogs and children.Remember, Raul?Eh, Rafel? Federico, do you rememberfrom under the groundmy balconies on whichthe light of June drowned flowers in your mouth?Brother, my brother!Everythingloud with big voices, the salt of merchandises,pile-ups of palpitating bread,the stalls of my suburb of Arguelles with its statuelike a drained inkwell in a swirl of hake:oil flowed into spoons,a deep bayingof feet and hands swelled in the streets,metres, litres, the sharpmeasure of life,stacked-up fish,the texture of roofs with a cold sun in whichthe weather vane falters,the fine, frenzied ivory of potatoes,wave on wave of tomatoes rolling down the sea.And one morning all that was burning,one morning the bonfiresleapt out of the earthdevouring human beings --and from then on fire,gunpowder from then on,and from then on blood.Bandits with planes and Moors,bandits with finger-rings and duchesses,bandits with black friars spattering blessingscame through the sky to kill childrenand the blood of children ran through the streetswithout fuss, like children's blood.Jackals that the jackals would despise,stones that the dry thistle would bite on and spit out,vipers that the vipers would abominate!Face to face with you I have seen the bloodof Spain tower like a tideto drown you in one waveof pride and knives!Treacherousgenerals:see my dead house,look at broken Spain :from every house burning metal flowsinstead of flowers,from every socket of SpainSpain emergesand from every dead child a rifle with eyes,and from every crime bullets are bornwhich will one day findthe bull's eye of your hearts.And you'll ask: why doesn't his poetryspeak of dreams and leavesand the great volcanoes of his native land?Come and see the blood in the streets.Come and seeThe blood in the streets.Come and see the bloodIn the streets!",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15228": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15228,
"poem.id": 15228,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:15:41",
"poem.title": "A Lemon",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15229": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15229,
"poem.id": 15229,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:15:44",
"poem.title": "Bird",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15230": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15230,
"poem.id": 15230,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:15:48",
"poem.title": "Xvii (I Do Not Love You...)",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15231": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15231,
"poem.id": 15231,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:15:52",
"poem.title": "Clenched Soul",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15232": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15232,
"poem.id": 15232,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:15:57",
"poem.title": "A Song Of Despair",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "The memory of you emerges from the night around me.The river mingles its stubborn lament with the sea.Deserted like the wharves at dawn.It is the hour of departure, oh deserted one! Cold flower heads are raining over my heart.Oh pit of debris, fierce cave of the shipwrecked.In you the wars and the flights accumulated.From you the wings of the song birds rose.You swallowed everything, like distance.Like the sea, like time. In you everything sank! It was the happy hour of assault and the kiss.The hour of the spell that blazed like a lighthouse.Pilot's dread, fury of blind driver,turbulent drunkenness of love, in you everything sank! In the childhood of mist my soul, winged and wounded.Lost discoverer, in you everything sank! You girdled sorrow, you clung to desire,sadness stunned you, in you everything sank! I made the wall of shadow draw back,beyond desire and act, I walked on.Oh flesh, my own flesh, woman whom I loved and lost,I summon you in the moist hour, I raise my song to you.Like a jar you housed infinite tenderness.and the infinite oblivion shattered you like a jar.There was the black solitude of the islands,and there, woman of love, your arms took me in.There was thirst and hunger, and you were the fruit.There were grief and ruins, and you were the miracle.Ah woman, I do not know how you could contain mein the earth of your soul, in the cross of your arms! How terrible and brief my desire was to you! How difficult and drunken, how tensed and avid.Cemetery of kisses, there is still fire in your tombs,still the fruited boughs burn, pecked at by birds.Oh the bitten mouth, oh the kissed limbs,oh the hungering teeth, oh the entwined bodies.Oh the mad coupling of hope and forcein which we merged and despaired.And the tenderness, light as water and as flour.And the word scarcely begun on the lips.This was my destiny and in it was my voyage of my longing,and in it my longing fell, in you everything sank! Oh pit of debris, everything fell into you,what sorrow did you not express, in what sorrow are you not drowned! From billow to billow you still called and sang.Standing like a sailor in the prow of a vessel.You still flowered in songs, you still brike the currents.Oh pit of debris, open and bitter well.Pale blind diver, luckless slinger,lost discoverer, in you everything sank! It is the hour of departure, the hard cold hourwhich the night fastens to all the timetables.The rustling belt of the sea girdles the shore.Cold stars heave up, black birds migrate.Deserted like the wharves at dawn.Only tremulous shadow twists in my hands.Oh farther than everything. Oh farther than everything.It is the hour of departure. Oh abandoned one!",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15233": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15233,
"poem.id": 15233,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:15:59",
"poem.title": "From – Twenty Poems Of Love",
"poem.date": "1/25/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15234": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15234,
"poem.id": 15234,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:16:05",
"poem.title": "Drunk As Drunk",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15235": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15235,
"poem.id": 15235,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:16:08",
"poem.title": "In My Sky At Twilight",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15236": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15236,
"poem.id": 15236,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:16:12",
"poem.title": "Tonight I Can Write The Saddest Lines",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15237": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15237,
"poem.id": 15237,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:16:18",
"poem.title": "A Dog Has Died",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "My dog has died.I buried him in the gardennext to a rusted old machine.Some day I'll join him right there,but now he's gone with his shaggy coat,his bad manners and his cold nose,and I, the materialist, who never believedin any promised heaven in the skyfor any human being,I believe in a heaven I'll never enter.Yes, I believe in a heaven for all dogdomwhere my dog waits for my arrivalwaving his fan-like tail in friendship.Ai, I'll not speak of sadness here on earth,of having lost a companionwho was never servile.His friendship for me, like that of a porcupinewithholding its authority,was the friendship of a star, aloof,with no more intimacy than was called for,with no exaggerations:he never climbed all over my clothesfilling me full of his hair or his mange,he never rubbed up against my kneelike other dogs obsessed with sex.No, my dog used to gaze at me,paying me the attention I need,the attention requiredto make a vain person like me understandthat, being a dog, he was wasting time,but, with those eyes so much purer than mine,he'd keep on gazing at mewith a look that reserved for me aloneall his sweet and shaggy life,always near me, never troubling me,and asking nothing.Ai, how many times have I envied his tailas we walked together on the shores of the seain the lonely winter of Isla Negrawhere the wintering birds filled the skyand my hairy dog was jumping aboutfull of the voltage of the sea's movement:my wandering dog, sniffing awaywith his golden tail held high,face to face with the ocean's spray.Joyful, joyful, joyful,as only dogs know how to be happywith only the autonomyof their shameless spirit.There are no good-byes for my dog who has died,and we don't now and never did lie to each other.So now he's gone and I buried him,and that's all there is to it.Translated, from the Spanish, by Alfred Yankauer",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15238": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15238,
"poem.id": 15238,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:16:23",
"poem.title": "Sonnet Xvii",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15239": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15239,
"poem.id": 15239,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:16:28",
"poem.title": "Your Laughter",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15240": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15240,
"poem.id": 15240,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:16:32",
"poem.title": "Don'T Go Far Off",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "Your browser does not support the audio element.",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15241": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15241,
"poem.id": 15241,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:16:34",
"poem.title": "I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
},
"15242": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15242,
"poem.id": 15242,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:16:35",
"poem.title": "If You Forget Me",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Pablo Neruda"
}
} |
| 6 | 2018-02-28 20:26:14 | Emily Dickinson | {
"201": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 201,
"poem.id": 201,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:57:33",
"poem.title": "A Pang is more conspicuous in Spring",
"poem.date": "5/5/2015",
"poem.content": "A Pang is more conspicuous in SpringIn contrast with the things that singNot Birds entirely - but Minds - Minute Effulgencies and Winds - When what they sung for is undoneWho cares about a Blue Bird's Tune - Why, Resurrection had to waitTill they had moved a Stone -",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"202": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 202,
"poem.id": 202,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:57:38",
"poem.title": "If Ever The Lid Gets Off My Head",
"poem.date": "5/12/2015",
"poem.content": "If ever the lid gets off my headAnd lets the brain awayThe fellow will go where he belonged - Without a hint from me,And the world - if the world be looking on - Will see how far from homeIt is possible for sense to liveThe soul there - all the time.",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"203": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 203,
"poem.id": 203,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:57:44",
"poem.title": "The Work Of Her That Went",
"poem.date": "5/13/2015",
"poem.content": "The Work of Her that went,The Toil of Fellows done - In Ovens green our Mother bakes,By Fires of the Sun.",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"204": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 204,
"poem.id": 204,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:57:51",
"poem.title": "And with what body do they come",
"poem.date": "5/21/2015",
"poem.content": "'And with what body do they come?' - Then they do come - Rejoice!What Door - What Hour - Run - run - My Soul!Illuminate the House!'Body!' Then real - a Face and Eyes - To know that it is them!Paul knew the Man that knew the News - He passed through Bethlehem -",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"205": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 205,
"poem.id": 205,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:57:55",
"poem.title": "So much of Heaven has gone from Earth",
"poem.date": "5/29/2015",
"poem.content": "So much of Heaven has gone from EarthThat there must be a HeavenIf only to enclose the SaintsTo Affidavit given.The Missionary to the MoleMust prove there is a SkyLocation doubtless he would pleadBut what excuse have I?Too much of Proof affronts BeliefThe Turtle will not tryUnless you leave him - then returnAnd he has hauled away.",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"206": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 206,
"poem.id": 206,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:58:02",
"poem.title": "His voice decrepit was with Joy",
"poem.date": "9/2/2015",
"poem.content": "His voice decrepit was with Joy - Her words did totter soHow old the News of Love must beTo make Lips elderlyThat purled a moment since with Glee - Is it Delight or Woe - Or Terror - that do decorateThis livid interview -",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"207": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 207,
"poem.id": 207,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:58:05",
"poem.title": "Remembrance has a Rear and Front",
"poem.date": "12/29/2015",
"poem.content": "Remembrance has a Rear and Front - 'Tis something like a House - It has a Garret alsoFor Refuse and the Mouse.Besides the deepest CellarThat ever Mason laid - Look to it by its FathomsOurselves be not pursued -",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"208": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 208,
"poem.id": 208,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:58:08",
"poem.title": "These Fevered Days - to take them to the Forest",
"poem.date": "2/11/2016",
"poem.content": "These Fevered Days - to take them to the ForestWhere Waters cool around the mosses crawl - And shade is all that devastates the stillnessSeems it sometimes this would be all -",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"209": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 209,
"poem.id": 209,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:58:12",
"poem.title": "The Devil - had he fidelity",
"poem.date": "3/30/2016",
"poem.content": "The Devil - had he fidelityWould be the best friend - Because he has ability - But Devils cannot mend - Perfidy is the virtueThat would but he resignThe Devil - without questionWere thoroughly divine",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"210": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 210,
"poem.id": 210,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:58:20",
"poem.title": "Of so divine a Loss",
"poem.date": "3/30/2016",
"poem.content": "Of so divine a LossWe enter but the Gain,Indemnity for LonelinessThat such a Bliss has been.",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"211": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 211,
"poem.id": 211,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:58:26",
"poem.title": "The Beggar at the Door for Fame",
"poem.date": "4/8/2016",
"poem.content": "The Beggar at the Door for FameWere easily suppliedBut Bread is that Diviner thingDisclosed to be denied",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"212": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 212,
"poem.id": 212,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:58:32",
"poem.title": "Praise it - 'tis dead -",
"poem.date": "6/7/2016",
"poem.content": "Praise it - 'tis dead - It cannot glow - Warm this inclement EarWith the encomium it earnedSince it was gathered here - Invest this alabaster ZestIn the Delights of Dust - Remitted - since it flitted itIn recusance august.",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"213": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 213,
"poem.id": 213,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:58:37",
"poem.title": "'Tomorrow' - whose location",
"poem.date": "7/20/2016",
"poem.content": "'Tomorrow' - whose locationThe Wise deceivesThough its hallucinationIs last that leaves - Tomorrow - thou RetrieverOf every tare - Of Alibi art thouOr ownest where?",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"214": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 214,
"poem.id": 214,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:58:40",
"poem.title": "As old as Woe",
"poem.date": "7/29/2016",
"poem.content": "As old as Woe - How old is that?Some eighteen thousand years - As old as BlissHow old is thatThey are of equal yearsTogether chiefest they ard foundBut seldom side by sideFrom neither of them tho' he tryCan Human nature hide",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"215": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 215,
"poem.id": 215,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:58:44",
"poem.title": "Best Witchcraft is Geometry",
"poem.date": "8/4/2016",
"poem.content": "Best Witchcraft is GeometryTo the magician's mind - His ordinary acts are featsTo thinking of mankind.",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"216": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 216,
"poem.id": 216,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:58:48",
"poem.title": "The Clover's simple Fame",
"poem.date": "4/8/2016",
"poem.content": "The Clover's simple FameRemembered of the Cow - Is better than enameled RealmsOf notability.Renown perceives itselfAnd that degrades the Flower - The Daisy that has looked behindHas compromised its power -",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"217": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 217,
"poem.id": 217,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:58:52",
"poem.title": "Let me not mar that perfect Dream",
"poem.date": "3/11/2016",
"poem.content": "Let me not mar that perfect DreamBy an Auroral stainBut so adjust my daily NightThat it will come again.Not when we know, the Power accosts - The Garment of SurpriseWas all our timid Mother woreAt Home - in Paradise.",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"218": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 218,
"poem.id": 218,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:58:57",
"poem.title": "Immured in Heaven!",
"poem.date": "3/21/2016",
"poem.content": "Immured in Heaven!What a Cell!Let every Bondage be,Thou sweetest of the Universe,Like that which ravished thee!",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"219": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 219,
"poem.id": 219,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:59:00",
"poem.title": "Not Sickness stains the Brave,",
"poem.date": "2/26/2016",
"poem.content": "Not Sickness stains the Brave,Nor any Dart,Nor Doubt of Scene to come,But an adjourning Heart -",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"220": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 220,
"poem.id": 220,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:59:03",
"poem.title": "Glory is that bright tragic thing",
"poem.date": "2/29/2016",
"poem.content": "Glory is that bright tragic thingThat for an instantMeans Dominion - Warms some poor nameThat never felt the Sun,Gently replacingIn oblivion -",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"221": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 221,
"poem.id": 221,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:59:10",
"poem.title": "It stole along so stealthy",
"poem.date": "6/25/2015",
"poem.content": "It stole along so stealthySuspicion it was doneWas dim as to the wealthyBeginning not to own -",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"222": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 222,
"poem.id": 222,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:59:13",
"poem.title": "Witchcraft Has Not A Pedigree",
"poem.date": "11/13/2015",
"poem.content": "Witchcraft has not a pedigree,‘Tis early as our breath,And mourners meet it going outThe moment of our death.",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"223": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 223,
"poem.id": 223,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:59:17",
"poem.title": "If all the griefs I am to have",
"poem.date": "11/26/2015",
"poem.content": "If all the griefs I am to haveWould only come today,I am so happy I believeThey'd laugh and run away.If all the joys I am to haveWould only come today,They could not be so big as thisThat happens to me now.",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"224": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 224,
"poem.id": 224,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:59:22",
"poem.title": "Whose Pink career may have a close",
"poem.date": "7/4/2015",
"poem.content": "Whose Pink career may have a closePortentous as our own, who knows?To imitate these Neighbors fleetIn awe and innocence, were meet.",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"225": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 225,
"poem.id": 225,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:59:26",
"poem.title": "Image of Light, Adieu",
"poem.date": "7/21/2015",
"poem.content": "Image of Light, Adieu - Thanks for the interview - So long - so short - Preceptor of the whole - Coeval Cardinal - Impart - Depart -",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"226": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 226,
"poem.id": 226,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:59:33",
"poem.title": "Warm in her Hand these accents lie",
"poem.date": "2/18/2016",
"poem.content": "Warm in her Hand these accents lieWhile faithful and afarThe Grace so awkward for her sakeIts fond subjection wear -",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"227": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 227,
"poem.id": 227,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:59:38",
"poem.title": "On my volcano grows the Grass",
"poem.date": "12/10/2015",
"poem.content": "On my volcano grows the GrassA meditative spot - An acre for a Bird to chooseWould be the General thought - How red the Fire rocks below - How insecure the sodDid I discloseWould populate with awe my solitude.",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"228": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 228,
"poem.id": 228,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:59:42",
"poem.title": "Hope is a strange invention",
"poem.date": "7/26/2016",
"poem.content": "Hope is a strange invention - A Patent of the Heart - In unremitting actionYet never wearing out - Of this electric AdjunctNot anything is knownBut its unique momentumEmbellish all we own -",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"229": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 229,
"poem.id": 229,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:59:48",
"poem.title": "Speech is one symptom of Affection",
"poem.date": "7/11/2016",
"poem.content": "Speech is one symptom of AffectionAnd Silence one - The perfectest communicationIs heard of none - Exists and its indorsementIs had within - Behold, said the Apostle,Yet had not seen!",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"230": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 230,
"poem.id": 230,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 03:59:53",
"poem.title": "Ended, ere it begun -",
"poem.date": "4/4/2016",
"poem.content": "Ended, ere it begun - The Title was scarcely toldWhen the Preface perished from ConsciousnessThe Story, unrevealed - Had it been mine, to print!Had it been yours, to read!That it was not Our privilegeThe interdict of God -",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"231": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 231,
"poem.id": 231,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:00:00",
"poem.title": "It sounded as if the Streets were running",
"poem.date": "4/21/2015",
"poem.content": "It sounded as if the Streets were runningAnd then - the Streets stood still - Eclipse - was all we could see at the WindowAnd Awe - was all we could feel.By and by - the boldest stole out of his CovertTo see if Time was there - Nature was in an Opal Apron,Mixing fresher Air.",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"232": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 232,
"poem.id": 232,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:00:03",
"poem.title": "The Spry Arms Of The Wind",
"poem.date": "5/11/2015",
"poem.content": "The spry Arms of the WindIf I could crawl betweenI have an errand imminentTo an adjoining Zone - I should not care to stopMy Process is not longThe Wind could wait without the GateOr stroll the Town among.To ascertain the HouseAnd is the soul at HomeAnd hold the Wick of mine to itTo light, and then return -",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"233": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 233,
"poem.id": 233,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:00:06",
"poem.title": "Some Days retired from the rest",
"poem.date": "4/18/2015",
"poem.content": "Some Days retired from the restIn soft distinction lieThe Day that a Companion cameOr was obliged to die",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"234": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 234,
"poem.id": 234,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:00:09",
"poem.title": "Whole Gulfs - of Red, and Fleets",
"poem.date": "4/17/2015",
"poem.content": "Whole Gulfs - of Red, and Fleets - of Red - And Crews - of solid Blood - Did place upon the West - Tonight - As 'twere specific Ground - And They - appointed Creatures - In Authorized Arrays - Due - promptly - as a Drama - That bows - and disappears -",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"235": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 235,
"poem.id": 235,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:00:14",
"poem.title": "Down Time's quaint stream",
"poem.date": "7/12/2016",
"poem.content": "Down Time's quaint streamWithout an oarWe are enforced to sailOur Port a secretOur Perchance a GaleWhat Skipper wouldIncur the RiskWhat Buccaneer would rideWithout a surety from the WindOr schedule of the Tide -",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"236": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 236,
"poem.id": 236,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:00:20",
"poem.title": "A train went through a burial gate",
"poem.date": "7/22/2016",
"poem.content": "A train went through a burial gate,A bird broke forth and sang,And trilled, and quivered, and shook his throatTill all the churchyard rang;And then adjusted his little notes,And bowed and sang again.Doubtless, he thought it meet of himTo say good-by to men.",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"237": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 237,
"poem.id": 237,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:00:24",
"poem.title": "Shall I take thee, the Poet said",
"poem.date": "7/29/2015",
"poem.content": "Shall I take thee, the Poet saidTo the propounded word?Be stationed with the CandidatesTill I have finer tried—The Poet searched PhilologyAnd when about to ringFor the suspended CandidateThere came unsummoned in—That portion of the VisionThe Word applied to fillNot unto nominationThe Cherubim reveal—",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"238": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 238,
"poem.id": 238,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:00:28",
"poem.title": "As from the earth the light Balloon",
"poem.date": "5/29/2015",
"poem.content": "As from the earth the light BalloonAsks nothing but release - Ascension that for which it was,Its soaring Residence.The spirit looks upon the DustThat fastened it so longWith indignation,As a BirdDefrauded of its song.",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"239": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 239,
"poem.id": 239,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:00:34",
"poem.title": "He ate and drank the precious Words",
"poem.date": "9/4/2015",
"poem.content": "He ate and drank the precious Words - His Spirit grew robust - He knew no more that he was poor,Nor that his frame was Dust - He danced along the dingy DaysAnd this Bequest of WingsWas but a Book - What LibertyA loosened spirit brings -",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"240": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 240,
"poem.id": 240,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-01 04:00:40",
"poem.title": "Of Yellow was the outer Sky",
"poem.date": "9/7/2015",
"poem.content": "Nature rarer uses YellowThan another Hue.Saves she all of that for SunsetsProdigal of BlueSpending Scarlet, like a WomanYellow she affordsOnly scantly and selectlyLike a Lover's Words.",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15283": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15283,
"poem.id": 15283,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:16:39",
"poem.title": "I Would Distil A Cup",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15284": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15284,
"poem.id": 15284,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:16:45",
"poem.title": "Lightly Stepped A Yellow Star",
"poem.date": "1/16/2015",
"poem.content": "Lightly stepped a yellow starTo its lofty place - Loosed the Moon her silver hatFrom her lustral Face - All of Evening softly litAs an Astral Hall - Father, I observed to Heaven,You are punctual.",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15285": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15285,
"poem.id": 15285,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:16:50",
"poem.title": "Revolution is the Pod",
"poem.date": "2/13/2016",
"poem.content": "Revolution is the PodSystems rattle fromWhen the Winds of Will are stirredExcellent is BloomBut except its Russet BaseEvery Summer beThe Entomber of itself,So of Liberty - Left inactive on the StalkAll its Purple fledRevolution shakes it forTest if it be dead.",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15286": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15286,
"poem.id": 15286,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:16:53",
"poem.title": "From The Chrysalis",
"poem.date": "12/13/2014",
"poem.content": "My cocoon tightens, colors tease,I'm feeling for the air;A dim capacity for wingsDegrades the dress I wear. A power of butterfly must beThe aptitude to fly,Meadows of majesty concedesAnd easy sweeps of sky. So I must baffle at the hintAnd cipher at the sign,And make much blunder, if at lastI take the clew divine.",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15287": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15287,
"poem.id": 15287,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:16:57",
"poem.title": "Declaiming Waters None May Dread",
"poem.date": "11/22/2014",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15288": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15288,
"poem.id": 15288,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:17:03",
"poem.title": "The Duties Of The Wind Are Few",
"poem.date": "5/11/2015",
"poem.content": "The duties of the Wind are few,To cast the ships, at Sea,Establish March, the Floods escort,And usher Liberty.The pleasures of the Wind are broad,To dwell Extent among,Remain, or wander,Speculate, or Forests entertain.The kinsmen of the Wind are PeaksAzof - the Equinox,Also with Bird and AsteroidA bowing intercourse.The limitations of the WindDo he exist, or die,Too wise he seems for Wakelessness,However, know not i.",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15289": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15289,
"poem.id": 15289,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:17:07",
"poem.title": "STEP lightly on this narrow spot",
"poem.date": "10/20/2015",
"poem.content": "STEP lightly on this narrow spot! The broadest land that grows Is not so ample as the breast These emerald seams enclose. Step lofty; for this name is told As far as cannon dwell, Or flag subsist, or fame export Her deathless syllable.",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15290": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15290,
"poem.id": 15290,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:17:13",
"poem.title": "How Human Nature dotes",
"poem.date": "4/21/2016",
"poem.content": "How Human Nature dotesOn what it can't detect.The moment that a Plot is plumbedProspective is extinct - Prospective is the friendReserved for us to knowWhen Constancy is clarifiedOf Curiosity - Of subjects that resistRedoubtablest is thisWhere go we - Go we anywhereCreation after this?",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15291": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15291,
"poem.id": 15291,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:17:17",
"poem.title": "The Road Was Lit With Moon And Star",
"poem.date": "1/16/2015",
"poem.content": "The Road was lit with Moon and star - The Trees were bright and still - Descried I - by the distant LightA Traveller on a Hill - To magic PerpendicularsAscending, though Terrene - Unknown his shimmering ultimate - But he indorsed the sheen -",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15292": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15292,
"poem.id": 15292,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:17:20",
"poem.title": "To See Her Is A Picture",
"poem.date": "5/3/2013",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15293": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15293,
"poem.id": 15293,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:17:26",
"poem.title": "There comes a warning like a spy",
"poem.date": "5/11/2015",
"poem.content": "There comes a warning like a spyA shorter breath of DayA stealing that is not a stealthAnd Summers are away",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15294": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15294,
"poem.id": 15294,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:17:28",
"poem.title": "The Wind Took Up The Northern Things",
"poem.date": "5/12/2015",
"poem.content": "The Wind took up the Northern ThingsAnd piled them in the south - Then gave the East unto the WestAnd opening his mouthThe four Divisions of the EarthDid make as to devourWhile everything to corners slunkBehind the awful power - The Wind - unto his Chambers wentAnd nature ventured out - Her subjects scattered into placeHer systems ranged aboutAgain the smoke from Dwellings roseThe Day abroad was heard - How intimate, a Tempest pastThe Transport of the Bird -",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15295": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15295,
"poem.id": 15295,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:17:32",
"poem.title": "The Notice that is called the Spring",
"poem.date": "5/5/2015",
"poem.content": "The Notice that is called the SpringIs but a month from here - Put up my Heart thy Hoary workAnd take a Rosy Chair.Not any House the Flowers keep - The Birds enamor Care - Our salary the longest DayIs nothing but a Bier.",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15296": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15296,
"poem.id": 15296,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:17:37",
"poem.title": "I am afraid to own a Body",
"poem.date": "11/26/2015",
"poem.content": "I am afraid to own a Body - I am afraid to own a Soul - Profound - precarious Property - Possession, not optional - Double Estate - entailed at pleasureUpon an unsuspecting Heir - Duke in a moment of DeathlessnessAnd God, for a Frontier.",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15297": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15297,
"poem.id": 15297,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:17:41",
"poem.title": "Had we our senses",
"poem.date": "8/7/2015",
"poem.content": "Had we our sensesBut perhaps 'tis well they're not at HomeSo intimate with MadnessHe's liable with themHad we the eyes without our Head—How well that we are Blind—We could not look upon the Earth—So utterly unmoved—",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15298": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15298,
"poem.id": 15298,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:17:43",
"poem.title": "Air has no Residence, no Neighbor",
"poem.date": "2/10/2016",
"poem.content": "Air has no Residence, no Neighbor,No Ear, no Door,No Apprehension of AnotherOh, Happy Air!Ethereal Guest at e'en an Outcast's Pillow - Essential Host, in Life's faint, wailing Inn,Later than Light thy Consciousness accost meTill it depart, persuading Mine -",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15299": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15299,
"poem.id": 15299,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:17:45",
"poem.title": "The Words The Happy Say",
"poem.date": "1/9/2015",
"poem.content": "The words the happy sayAre paltry melodyBut those the silent feelAre beautiful—",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15300": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15300,
"poem.id": 15300,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:17:50",
"poem.title": "I Have No Life But This",
"poem.date": "11/22/2014",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15301": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15301,
"poem.id": 15301,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:17:52",
"poem.title": "A Sickness Of This World It Most Occasions",
"poem.date": "5/12/2015",
"poem.content": "A Sickness of this World it most occasionsWhen Best Men die.A Wishfulness their far ConditionTo occupy.A Chief indifference, as ForeignA World must beThemselves forsake - contented,For Deity.",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15302": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15302,
"poem.id": 15302,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:17:55",
"poem.title": "The Face we choose to miss",
"poem.date": "9/11/2015",
"poem.content": "The Face we choose to miss - Be it but for a DayAs absent as a Hundred Years,When it has rode away.",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15303": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15303,
"poem.id": 15303,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:17:58",
"poem.title": "A Spider sewed at Night",
"poem.date": "8/8/2016",
"poem.content": "A Spider sewed at NightWithout a LightUpon an Arc of White.If Ruff it was of DameOr Shroud of GnomeHimself himself inform.Of ImmortalityHis StrategyWas Physiognomy.",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15304": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15304,
"poem.id": 15304,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:18:02",
"poem.title": "Heavenly Father",
"poem.date": "1/8/2015",
"poem.content": "'Heavenly Father' - take to theeThe supreme iniquityFashioned by thy candid HandIn a moment contraband - Though to trust us - seems to usMore respectful - 'We are Dust' - We apologize to theeFor thine own Duplicity -",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15305": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15305,
"poem.id": 15305,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:18:07",
"poem.title": "Reverse Cannot Befall",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15306": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15306,
"poem.id": 15306,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:18:10",
"poem.title": "On That Dear Frame The Years Had Worn",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15307": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15307,
"poem.id": 15307,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:18:16",
"poem.title": "This That Would Greet&Mdash;An Hour Ago",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15308": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15308,
"poem.id": 15308,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:18:23",
"poem.title": "The Himmaleh Was Known To Stoop",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15309": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15309,
"poem.id": 15309,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:18:28",
"poem.title": "There Are Two Ripenings—one—of Sight",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15310": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15310,
"poem.id": 15310,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:18:33",
"poem.title": "What Shall I Do—it Whimpers So",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15311": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15311,
"poem.id": 15311,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:18:38",
"poem.title": "Least Rivers—docile To Some Sea",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15312": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15312,
"poem.id": 15312,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:18:45",
"poem.title": "They Have A Little Odor—that To Me",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15313": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15313,
"poem.id": 15313,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:18:51",
"poem.title": "To Flee From Memory",
"poem.date": "1/16/2015",
"poem.content": "To flee from memoryHad we the WingsMany would flyInured to slower thingsBirds with surpriseWould scan the cowering VanOf men escapingFrom the mind of man",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15314": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15314,
"poem.id": 15314,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:18:54",
"poem.title": "Mine enemy is growing old",
"poem.date": "5/29/2015",
"poem.content": "MINE enemy is growing old, I have at last revenge. The palate of the hate departs; If any would avenge, Let him be quick, the viand flits, It is a faded meat. Anger as soon as fed is dead; 'T is starving makes it fat.",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15315": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15315,
"poem.id": 15315,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:18:57",
"poem.title": "Escape is such a thankful Word",
"poem.date": "5/8/2015",
"poem.content": "Escape is such a thankful WordI often in the NightConsider it unto myselfNo spectacle in sightEscape - it is the BasketIn which the Heart is caughtWhen down some awful BattlementThe rest of Life is dropt - 'Tis not to sight the savior - It is to be the saved - And that is why I lay my HeadUpon this trusty word -",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15316": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15316,
"poem.id": 15316,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:19:02",
"poem.title": "'Tis Anguish Grander Than Delight",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15317": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15317,
"poem.id": 15317,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:19:07",
"poem.title": "Low At My Problem Bending",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15318": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15318,
"poem.id": 15318,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:19:10",
"poem.title": "I Sometimes Drop It, For A Quick",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15319": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15319,
"poem.id": 15319,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:19:12",
"poem.title": "Of Tribulation, These Are They",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15320": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15320,
"poem.id": 15320,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:19:19",
"poem.title": "Kill Your Balm—and Its Odors Bless You",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15321": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15321,
"poem.id": 15321,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:19:25",
"poem.title": "A lane of Yellow led the eye",
"poem.date": "9/7/2015",
"poem.content": "A lane of Yellow led the eyeUnto a Purple WoodWhose soft inhabitants to beSurpasses solitudeIf Bird the silence contradictOr flower presume to showIn that low summer of the WestImpossible to know -",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15322": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15322,
"poem.id": 15322,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:19:28",
"poem.title": "Exhilaration is the Breeze",
"poem.date": "1/29/2016",
"poem.content": "Exhilaration is the BreezeThat lifts us from the GroundAnd leaves us in another placeWhose statement is not found - Returns us not, but after timeWe soberly descendA little newer for the termUpon Enchanted Ground -",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15323": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15323,
"poem.id": 15323,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:19:30",
"poem.title": "Are Friends Delight Or Pain",
"poem.date": "12/10/2014",
"poem.content": "Are Friends Delight or Pain?Could Bounty but remainRiches were good - But if they only stayAmpler to fly awayRiches are sad.",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15324": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15324,
"poem.id": 15324,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:19:35",
"poem.title": "These—saw Visions",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15325": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15325,
"poem.id": 15325,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:19:38",
"poem.title": "One Day Is There Of The Series",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15326": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15326,
"poem.id": 15326,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:19:44",
"poem.title": "Too cold is this",
"poem.date": "2/19/2016",
"poem.content": "Too cold is thisTo warm with Sun - Too stiff to bended be,To joint this Agate were a work - Outstaring Masonry - How went the Agile Kernel outContusion of the HuskNor Rip, nor wrinkle indicateBut just an Asterisk.",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15327": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15327,
"poem.id": 15327,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:19:47",
"poem.title": "The Grace—myself—might Not Obtain",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15328": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15328,
"poem.id": 15328,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:19:52",
"poem.title": "No Bobolink—reverse His Singing",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15329": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15329,
"poem.id": 15329,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:19:56",
"poem.title": "Size Circumscribes—it Has No Room",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15330": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15330,
"poem.id": 15330,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:19:58",
"poem.title": "So The Eyes Accost—and Sunder",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15331": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15331,
"poem.id": 15331,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:20:02",
"poem.title": "Who Court Obtain Within Himself",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15332": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15332,
"poem.id": 15332,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:20:06",
"poem.title": "Of Brussels—it Was Not",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15333": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15333,
"poem.id": 15333,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:20:08",
"poem.title": "Soil Of Flint, If Steady Tilled",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15334": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15334,
"poem.id": 15334,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:20:15",
"poem.title": "When Memory is full",
"poem.date": "6/11/2015",
"poem.content": "When Memory is fullPut on the perfect Lid - This Morning's finest syllablePresumptuous Evening said -",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15335": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15335,
"poem.id": 15335,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:20:19",
"poem.title": "I Sing To Use The Waiting",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15336": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15336,
"poem.id": 15336,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:20:23",
"poem.title": "There Is A Shame Of Nobleness",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15337": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15337,
"poem.id": 15337,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:20:28",
"poem.title": "September's Baccalaureate",
"poem.date": "4/21/2015",
"poem.content": "September's BaccalaureateA combination isOf Crickets - Crows - and RetrospectsAnd a dissembling BreezeThat hints without assuming - An Innuendo searThat makes the Heart put up its FunAnd turn Philosopher.",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15338": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15338,
"poem.id": 15338,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:20:33",
"poem.title": "High From The Earth I Heard A Bird",
"poem.date": "5/21/2015",
"poem.content": "High from the earth I heard a bird;He trod upon the treesAs he esteemed them trifles,And then he spied a breeze,And situated softlyUpon a pile of windWhich in a perturbationNature had left behind.A joyous-going fellowI gathered from his talk,Which both of benedictionAnd badinage partook,Without apparent burden,I learned, in leafy woodHe was the faithful fatherOf a dependent brood;And this untoward transportHis remedy for care,—A contrast to our respites.How different we are!",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15339": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15339,
"poem.id": 15339,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:20:38",
"poem.title": "Longing is like the Seed",
"poem.date": "7/24/2015",
"poem.content": "Longing is like the SeedThat wrestles in the Ground,Believing if it intercedeIt shall at length be found.The Hour, and the Clime - Each Circumstance unknown,What Constancy must be achievedBefore it see the Sun!",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15340": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15340,
"poem.id": 15340,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:20:41",
"poem.title": "Is It Too Late To Touch You, Dear?",
"poem.date": "9/10/2015",
"poem.content": "Is it too late to touch you, Dear?We this moment knew - Love Marine and Love terrene - Love celestial too -",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15341": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15341,
"poem.id": 15341,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:20:47",
"poem.title": "A Word dropped careless on a Page",
"poem.date": "2/29/2016",
"poem.content": "A Word dropped careless on a PageMay stimulate an eyeWhen folded in perpetual seamThe Wrinkled Maker lieInfection in the sentence breedsWe may inhale DespairAt distances of CenturiesFrom the Malaria -",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15342": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15342,
"poem.id": 15342,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:20:51",
"poem.title": "There is another Loneliness",
"poem.date": "6/10/2015",
"poem.content": "There is another LonelinessThat many die without - Not want of friend occasions itOr circumstances of LotBut nature, sometimes, sometimes thoughtAnd whoso it befallIs richer than could be revealedBy mortal numeral",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15343": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15343,
"poem.id": 15343,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:20:55",
"poem.title": "Luck is not chance",
"poem.date": "6/10/2015",
"poem.content": "Luck is not chanceIt's ToilFortune's expensive smileIs earnedThe Father of the MineIs that old-fashioned CoinWe spurned",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15344": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15344,
"poem.id": 15344,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:21:00",
"poem.title": "Dear March - Come in",
"poem.date": "12/4/2015",
"poem.content": "DEAR March, come in! How glad I am! I looked for you before. Put down your hat— You must have walked— How out of breath you are! Dear March, how are you? And the rest? Did you leave Nature well? Oh, March, come right upstairs with me, I have so much to tell! I got your letter, and the bird's; The maples never knew That you were coming,—I declare, How red their faces grew! But, March, forgive me— And all those hills You left for me to hue; There was no purple suitable, You took it all with you. Who knocks? That April! Lock the door! I will not be pursued! He stayed away a year, to call When I am occupied. But trifles look so trivial As soon as you have come, That blame is just as dear as praise And praise as mere as blame.",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15345": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15345,
"poem.id": 15345,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:21:03",
"poem.title": "These Tested Our Horizon",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15346": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15346,
"poem.id": 15346,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:21:10",
"poem.title": "My Best Acquaintances Are Those",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15347": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15347,
"poem.id": 15347,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:21:13",
"poem.title": "No Other Can Reduce",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15348": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15348,
"poem.id": 15348,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:21:17",
"poem.title": "Severer Service Of Myself",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15349": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15349,
"poem.id": 15349,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:21:23",
"poem.title": "The Lamp Burns Sure—within",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15350": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15350,
"poem.id": 15350,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:21:25",
"poem.title": "Not That We Did, Shall Be The Test",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15351": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15351,
"poem.id": 15351,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:21:30",
"poem.title": "This Was In The White Of The Year",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15352": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15352,
"poem.id": 15352,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:21:33",
"poem.title": "The Tint I Cannot Take—is Best",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15353": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15353,
"poem.id": 15353,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:21:38",
"poem.title": "Morns Like These—we Parted",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15354": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15354,
"poem.id": 15354,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:21:44",
"poem.title": "Like Mighty Foot Lights—burned The Red",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15355": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15355,
"poem.id": 15355,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:21:48",
"poem.title": "The Heart Has Narrow Banks",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15356": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15356,
"poem.id": 15356,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:21:53",
"poem.title": "The Months Have Ends—the Years—a Knot",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15357": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15357,
"poem.id": 15357,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:21:59",
"poem.title": "There is no Silence in the Earth",
"poem.date": "5/29/2015",
"poem.content": "There is no Silence in the Earth - so silentAs that enduredWhich uttered, would discourage NatureAnd haunt the World.",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15358": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15358,
"poem.id": 15358,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:22:06",
"poem.title": "I Saw The Wind Within Her",
"poem.date": "5/12/2015",
"poem.content": "I saw the wind within herI knew it blew for me —But she must buy my shelterI asked Humility",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15359": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15359,
"poem.id": 15359,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:22:12",
"poem.title": "I Bet With Every Wind That Blew",
"poem.date": "5/12/2015",
"poem.content": "I bet with every Wind that blewTill Nature in chagrinEmployed a Fact to visit meAnd scuttle my Balloon -",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15360": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15360,
"poem.id": 15360,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:22:18",
"poem.title": "How Slow The Wind",
"poem.date": "5/12/2015",
"poem.content": "How slow the Wind - how slow the sea - how late their Fathers be!",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15361": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15361,
"poem.id": 15361,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:22:23",
"poem.title": "A Wind That Rose",
"poem.date": "5/11/2015",
"poem.content": "A Wind that roseThough not a LeafIn any Forest stirredBut with itself did cold engageBeyond the Realm of Bird - A Wind that woke a lone DelightLike Separation's SwellRestored in Arctic ConfidenceTo the Invisible -",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15362": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15362,
"poem.id": 15362,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:22:27",
"poem.title": "A chilly Peace infests the Grass",
"poem.date": "2/8/2016",
"poem.content": "A chilly Peace infests the GrassThe Sun respectful lies - Not any Trance of industryThese shadows scrutinize - Whose Allies go no more astrayFor service or for Glee - But all mankind deliver hereFrom whatsoever sea -",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15363": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15363,
"poem.id": 15363,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:22:32",
"poem.title": "Drowning is not so pitiful",
"poem.date": "8/31/2015",
"poem.content": "Drowning is not so pitiful As the attempt to rise. Three times, 't is said, a sinking man Comes up to face the skies, And then declines forever To that abhorred abode Where hope and he part company,— For he is grasped of God. The Maker's cordial visage, However good to see, Is shunned, we must admit it, Like an adversity.",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15364": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15364,
"poem.id": 15364,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:22:34",
"poem.title": "The Butterfly's Assumption Gown",
"poem.date": "12/13/2014",
"poem.content": "The Butterfly's Assumption GownIn Chrysoprase Apartments hungThis afternoon put on - How condescending to descendAnd be of Buttercups the friendIn a New England Town -",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15365": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15365,
"poem.id": 15365,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:22:37",
"poem.title": "The Savior Must Have Been A Docile Gentleman (1487)",
"poem.date": "12/15/2014",
"poem.content": "The Savior must have beenA docile Gentleman—To come so far so cold a DayFor little Fellowmen—The Road to BethlehemSince He and I were BoysWas leveled, but for that ‘twould beA rugged Billion Miles—",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15366": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15366,
"poem.id": 15366,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:22:41",
"poem.title": "I'Ll Send The Feather From My Hat!",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15367": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15367,
"poem.id": 15367,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:22:43",
"poem.title": "My First Well Day—since Many Ill",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15368": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15368,
"poem.id": 15368,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:22:47",
"poem.title": "Wert Thou But Ill—that I Might Show Thee",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15369": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15369,
"poem.id": 15369,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:22:53",
"poem.title": "They Won'T Frown Always—some Sweet Day",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15370": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15370,
"poem.id": 15370,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:22:56",
"poem.title": "Just As He Spoke It From His Hands",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15371": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15371,
"poem.id": 15371,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:22:59",
"poem.title": "The Robin For The Crumb",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15372": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15372,
"poem.id": 15372,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:23:03",
"poem.title": "'Tis Customary As We Part",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15373": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15373,
"poem.id": 15373,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:23:06",
"poem.title": "Removed From Accident Of Loss",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15374": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15374,
"poem.id": 15374,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:23:11",
"poem.title": "If What We Could&Mdash;Were What We Would",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15375": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15375,
"poem.id": 15375,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:23:14",
"poem.title": "Of Silken Speech And Specious Shoe",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15376": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15376,
"poem.id": 15376,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:23:20",
"poem.title": "The World&Mdash;Stands&Mdash;Solemner&Mdash;To Me",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15377": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15377,
"poem.id": 15377,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:23:24",
"poem.title": "Sometimes with the Heart",
"poem.date": "4/29/2015",
"poem.content": "Sometimes with the HeartSeldom with the SoulScarcer once with the MightFew - love at all.",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15378": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15378,
"poem.id": 15378,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:23:27",
"poem.title": "Death is like the insect",
"poem.date": "7/22/2015",
"poem.content": "Death is like the insectMenacing the tree,Competent to kill it,But decoyed may be.Bait it with the balsam,Seek it with the saw,Baffle, if it cost youEverything you are.Then, if it have burrowedOut of reach of skill - Wring the tree and leave it,'Tis the vermin's will.",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15379": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15379,
"poem.id": 15379,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:23:38",
"poem.title": "Noon—is The Hinge Of Day",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15380": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15380,
"poem.id": 15380,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:23:41",
"poem.title": "While Asters&Mdash;",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15381": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15381,
"poem.id": 15381,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:23:45",
"poem.title": "What Care The Dead, For Chanticleer",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15382": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15382,
"poem.id": 15382,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:23:49",
"poem.title": "The Court Is Far Away",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15383": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15383,
"poem.id": 15383,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:23:55",
"poem.title": "Like Her The Saints Retire",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15384": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15384,
"poem.id": 15384,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:24:00",
"poem.title": "Of Tolling Bell I Ask The Cause?",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15385": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15385,
"poem.id": 15385,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:24:03",
"poem.title": "The Heaven Vests For Each",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15386": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15386,
"poem.id": 15386,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:24:08",
"poem.title": "The Sweetest Heresy Received",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15387": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15387,
"poem.id": 15387,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:24:12",
"poem.title": "Where Bells No More Affright The Morn",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15388": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15388,
"poem.id": 15388,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:24:17",
"poem.title": "This Merit Hath The Worst",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15389": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15389,
"poem.id": 15389,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:24:19",
"poem.title": "There Is A June When Corn Is Cut",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15390": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15390,
"poem.id": 15390,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:24:25",
"poem.title": "We Met As Sparks—diverging Flints",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15391": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15391,
"poem.id": 15391,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:24:29",
"poem.title": "This Bauble Was Preferred Of Bees",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15392": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15392,
"poem.id": 15392,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:24:32",
"poem.title": "Mute Thy Coronation",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15393": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15393,
"poem.id": 15393,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:24:35",
"poem.title": "They Put Us Far Apart",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15394": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15394,
"poem.id": 15394,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:24:39",
"poem.title": "Could Hope Inspect Her Basis",
"poem.date": "12/6/2014",
"poem.content": "Could Hope inspect her BasisHer Craft were done - Has a fictitious CharterOr it has none - Balked in the vastest instanceBut to renew - Felled by but one assassin - Prosperity -",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15395": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15395,
"poem.id": 15395,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:24:42",
"poem.title": "I Noticed People Disappeared",
"poem.date": "4/11/2015",
"poem.content": "I noticed People disappearedWhen but a little child - Supposed they visited remoteOr settled Regions wild - But did because they diedA Fact withheld the little child -",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15396": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15396,
"poem.id": 15396,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:24:48",
"poem.title": "It Would Never Be Common—more—i Said",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15397": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15397,
"poem.id": 15397,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:24:53",
"poem.title": "There's Something Quieter Than Sleep",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15398": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15398,
"poem.id": 15398,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:24:57",
"poem.title": "This Dust, And Its Feature",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15399": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15399,
"poem.id": 15399,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:25:02",
"poem.title": "Who Giants Know, With Lesser Men",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15400": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15400,
"poem.id": 15400,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:25:06",
"poem.title": "She's Happy, With A New Content",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15401": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15401,
"poem.id": 15401,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:25:12",
"poem.title": "No Crowd That Has Occurred",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15402": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15402,
"poem.id": 15402,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:25:15",
"poem.title": "Of Consciousness, Her Awful Mate",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15403": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15403,
"poem.id": 15403,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:25:20",
"poem.title": "They Ask But Our Delight",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15404": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15404,
"poem.id": 15404,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:25:22",
"poem.title": "I'Ve None To Tell Me To But Thee",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15405": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15405,
"poem.id": 15405,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:25:26",
"poem.title": "The Show Is Not The Show,",
"poem.date": "5/15/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15406": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15406,
"poem.id": 15406,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:25:29",
"poem.title": "The White Heat",
"poem.date": "5/15/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15407": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15407,
"poem.id": 15407,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:25:31",
"poem.title": "The Thought Beneath So Slight A Film",
"poem.date": "5/15/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15408": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15408,
"poem.id": 15408,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:25:36",
"poem.title": "The Martyr Poets—did Not Tell",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15409": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15409,
"poem.id": 15409,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:25:40",
"poem.title": "There Is An Arid Pleasure",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15410": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15410,
"poem.id": 15410,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:25:45",
"poem.title": "The Snow That Never Drifts",
"poem.date": "1/8/2015",
"poem.content": "The Snow that never drifts - The transient, fragrant snowThat comes a single time a YearIs softly driving now - So thorough in the TreeAt night beneath the starThat it was February's FootExperience would swear - Like Winter as a FaceWe stern and former knewRepaired of all but LonelinessBy Nature's Alibit - Were every storm so spiceThe Value could not be - We buy with contrast - Pang is goodAs near as memory -",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15411": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15411,
"poem.id": 15411,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:25:47",
"poem.title": "Out Of Sight? What Of That?",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15412": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15412,
"poem.id": 15412,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:25:50",
"poem.title": "The Zeroes—taught Us—phosphorous",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15413": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15413,
"poem.id": 15413,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:25:53",
"poem.title": "We Miss Her, Not Because We See",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15414": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15414,
"poem.id": 15414,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:25:59",
"poem.title": "The Spirit Is The Conscious Ear",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15415": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15415,
"poem.id": 15415,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:26:02",
"poem.title": "The Hollows Round His Eager Eyes",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15416": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15416,
"poem.id": 15416,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:26:06",
"poem.title": "We See&Mdash;Comparatively",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15417": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15417,
"poem.id": 15417,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:26:09",
"poem.title": "Those Who Have Been In The Grave The Longest",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15418": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15418,
"poem.id": 15418,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:26:15",
"poem.title": "Jesus! Thy Crucifix",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15419": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15419,
"poem.id": 15419,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:26:17",
"poem.title": "Spring comes on the World",
"poem.date": "5/5/2015",
"poem.content": "Spring comes on the World - I sight the Aprils - Hueless to me until thou comeAs, till the BeeBlossoms stand negative,Touched to ConditionsBy a Hum.",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15420": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15420,
"poem.id": 15420,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:26:21",
"poem.title": "The Day That I Was Crowned",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15421": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15421,
"poem.id": 15421,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:26:23",
"poem.title": "He Who In Himself Believes",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15422": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15422,
"poem.id": 15422,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:26:28",
"poem.title": "Not Probable—the Barest Chance",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15423": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15423,
"poem.id": 15423,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:26:33",
"poem.title": "Shells From The Coast Mistaking",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15424": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15424,
"poem.id": 15424,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:26:36",
"poem.title": "This&Mdash;Is The Land&Mdash;The Sunset Washes",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15425": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15425,
"poem.id": 15425,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:26:39",
"poem.title": "A Sloop of Amber slips away",
"poem.date": "1/9/2016",
"poem.content": "A Sloop of Amber slips awayUpon an Ether Sea,And wrecks in Peace a Purple Tar,The Son of Ecstasy -",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15426": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15426,
"poem.id": 15426,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:26:41",
"poem.title": "I Want—it Pleaded—all Its Life—",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15427": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15427,
"poem.id": 15427,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:26:46",
"poem.title": "The Night Was Wide, And Furnished Scant",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15428": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15428,
"poem.id": 15428,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:26:50",
"poem.title": "The First Day That I Was A Life",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15429": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15429,
"poem.id": 15429,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:26:57",
"poem.title": "The Morning After Woe",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15430": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15430,
"poem.id": 15430,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:27:00",
"poem.title": "If He Were Living—dare I Ask",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15431": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15431,
"poem.id": 15431,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:27:06",
"poem.title": "The Dust Behind I Strove To Join",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15432": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15432,
"poem.id": 15432,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:27:13",
"poem.title": "He Found My Being—set It Up",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15433": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15433,
"poem.id": 15433,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:27:16",
"poem.title": "Good To Hide, And Hear 'Em Hunt!",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15434": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15434,
"poem.id": 15434,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:27:21",
"poem.title": "He Outstripped Time With But A Bout",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15435": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15435,
"poem.id": 15435,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:27:28",
"poem.title": "To Hang Our Head&Mdash;Ostensibly",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15436": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15436,
"poem.id": 15436,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:27:30",
"poem.title": "If She Had Been The Mistletoe",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15437": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15437,
"poem.id": 15437,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:27:33",
"poem.title": "Must Be A Woe",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15438": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15438,
"poem.id": 15438,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:27:37",
"poem.title": "Midsummer, Was It, When They Died",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15439": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15439,
"poem.id": 15439,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:27:41",
"poem.title": "Of All The Souls That Stand Create",
"poem.date": "5/15/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15440": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15440,
"poem.id": 15440,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:27:45",
"poem.title": "Only A Shrine, But Mine",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15441": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15441,
"poem.id": 15441,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:27:48",
"poem.title": "Publication—is The Auction",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15442": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15442,
"poem.id": 15442,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:27:53",
"poem.title": "Whose Cheek Is This?",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15443": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15443,
"poem.id": 15443,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:27:56",
"poem.title": "I Had The Glory—that Will Do",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15444": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15444,
"poem.id": 15444,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:28:00",
"poem.title": "Our Little Kinsmen—after Rain",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15445": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15445,
"poem.id": 15445,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:28:02",
"poem.title": "What I See Not, I Better See",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15446": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15446,
"poem.id": 15446,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:28:08",
"poem.title": "Sexton! My Master's Sleeping Here",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15447": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15447,
"poem.id": 15447,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:28:10",
"poem.title": "Those Fair—fictitious People",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15448": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15448,
"poem.id": 15448,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:28:17",
"poem.title": "It's Thoughts—and Just One Heart",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15449": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15449,
"poem.id": 15449,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:28:21",
"poem.title": "Rehearsal To Ourselves",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15450": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15450,
"poem.id": 15450,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:28:25",
"poem.title": "The Butterfly In Honored Dust",
"poem.date": "12/13/2014",
"poem.content": "The Butterfly in honored DustAssuredly will lieBut none will pass the CatacombSo chastened as the Fly -",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15451": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15451,
"poem.id": 15451,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:28:29",
"poem.title": "Our Share Of Night To Bear",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15452": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15452,
"poem.id": 15452,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:28:35",
"poem.title": "The Face I Carry With Me—last",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15453": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15453,
"poem.id": 15453,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:28:41",
"poem.title": "I'Ve Heard An Organ Talk, Sometimes",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15454": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15454,
"poem.id": 15454,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:28:45",
"poem.title": "I'Ve Nothing Else—to Bring, You Know",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15455": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15455,
"poem.id": 15455,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:28:51",
"poem.title": "In Snow Thou Comest",
"poem.date": "1/8/2015",
"poem.content": "In snow thou comest - Thou shalt go with the resuming ground,The sweet derision of the crow,And Glee's advancing sound.In fear thou comest - Thou shalt go at such a gait of joyThat man anew embark to liveUpon the depth of thee.",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15456": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15456,
"poem.id": 15456,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:28:55",
"poem.title": "Their Height In Heaven Comforts Not",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15457": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15457,
"poem.id": 15457,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:29:14",
"poem.title": "A little Madness in the Spring",
"poem.date": "5/5/2015",
"poem.content": "A little Madness in the SpringIs wholesome even for the King,But God be with the Clown - Who ponders this tremendous scene - This whole Experiment of Green - As if it were his own!",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15458": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15458,
"poem.id": 15458,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:29:19",
"poem.title": "How Lonesome The Wind Must Feel Nights -",
"poem.date": "5/11/2015",
"poem.content": "How lonesome the Wind must feel Nights - When people have put out the LightsAnd everything that has an InnCloses the shutter and goes in - How pompous the Wind must feel NoonsStepping to incorporeal TunesCorrecting errors of the skyAnd clarifying sceneryHow mighty the Wind must feel MornsEncamping on a thousand dawnsEspousing each and spurning allThen soaring to his Temple Tall -",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15459": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15459,
"poem.id": 15459,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:29:39",
"poem.title": "None Can Experience Sting",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15460": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15460,
"poem.id": 15460,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:29:44",
"poem.title": "Of All The Sounds Despatched Abroad",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15461": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15461,
"poem.id": 15461,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:29:48",
"poem.title": "Pigmy Seraphs—gone Astray",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15462": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15462,
"poem.id": 15462,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:29:50",
"poem.title": "Morning—means",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15463": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15463,
"poem.id": 15463,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:29:57",
"poem.title": "Where Ships Of Purple—gently Toss",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15464": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15464,
"poem.id": 15464,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:30:02",
"poem.title": "She Dwelleth In The Ground",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15465": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15465,
"poem.id": 15465,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:30:06",
"poem.title": "The Missing All—prevented Me",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15466": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15466,
"poem.id": 15466,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:30:12",
"poem.title": "Tho' I Get Home How Late—how Late",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15467": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15467,
"poem.id": 15467,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:30:17",
"poem.title": "Once More, My Now Bewildered Dove",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15468": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15468,
"poem.id": 15468,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:30:23",
"poem.title": "In Falling Timbers Buried",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15469": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15469,
"poem.id": 15469,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:30:26",
"poem.title": "Tho' My Destiny Be Fustian",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15470": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15470,
"poem.id": 15470,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:30:33",
"poem.title": "There Is A Finished Feeling",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15471": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15471,
"poem.id": 15471,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:30:38",
"poem.title": "If Nature Smiles - The Mother Must",
"poem.date": "12/17/2014",
"poem.content": "If Nature smiles - the Mother mustI'm sure, at many a whimOf Her eccentric Family - Is She so much to blame?",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15472": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15472,
"poem.id": 15472,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:30:43",
"poem.title": "I Make His Crescent Fill Or Lack",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15473": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15473,
"poem.id": 15473,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:30:50",
"poem.title": "The Gentian Weaves Her Fringes",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15474": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15474,
"poem.id": 15474,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:30:55",
"poem.title": "My Eye Is Fuller Than My Vase",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15475": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15475,
"poem.id": 15475,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:31:01",
"poem.title": "To Know Just How He Suffered—Would Be Dear",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15476": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15476,
"poem.id": 15476,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:31:04",
"poem.title": "They Called Me To The Window, For",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15477": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15477,
"poem.id": 15477,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:31:10",
"poem.title": "Perhaps I Asked Too Large",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15478": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15478,
"poem.id": 15478,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:31:14",
"poem.title": "The Future—never Spoke",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15479": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15479,
"poem.id": 15479,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:31:20",
"poem.title": "An Antiquated Tree",
"poem.date": "12/24/2014",
"poem.content": "An Antiquated TreeIs cherished of the CrowBecause that Junior Foliage is disrespectful nowTo venerable BirdsWhose Corporation CoatWould decorate Oblivion'sRemotest Consulate.",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15480": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15480,
"poem.id": 15480,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:31:22",
"poem.title": "His Heart Was Darker Than The Starless Night",
"poem.date": "2/25/2015",
"poem.content": "His Heart was darker than the starless nightFor that there is a mornBut in this black ReceptacleCan be no Bode of Dawn",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15481": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15481,
"poem.id": 15481,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:31:28",
"poem.title": "The Earth Has Many Keys",
"poem.date": "5/29/2015",
"poem.content": "The earth has many keys,Where melody is notIs the unknown peninsula.Beauty is nature's fact.But witness for her land,And witness for her sea,The cricket is her utmostOf elegy to me.",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15482": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15482,
"poem.id": 15482,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:31:32",
"poem.title": "How fits his Umber Coat",
"poem.date": "7/6/2015",
"poem.content": "How fits his Umber CoatThe Tailor of the Nut?Combined without a seamLike Raiment of a Dream - Who spun the Auburn Cloth?Computed how the girth?The Chestnut aged growsIn those primeval Clothes - We know that we are wise - Accomplished in Surprise - Yet by this Countryman - This nature - how undone!",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15489": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15489,
"poem.id": 15489,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:31:36",
"poem.title": "I Often Passed The Village",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15491": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15491,
"poem.id": 15491,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:31:38",
"poem.title": "How Well I Knew Her Not",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15494": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15494,
"poem.id": 15494,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:31:45",
"poem.title": "She Lay As If At Play",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15499": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15499,
"poem.id": 15499,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:31:47",
"poem.title": "Like Flowers, That Heard The News Of Dews",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15500": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15500,
"poem.id": 15500,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:31:50",
"poem.title": "He Parts Himself—like Leaves",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15501": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15501,
"poem.id": 15501,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:31:55",
"poem.title": "Smiling Back From Coronation",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15502": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15502,
"poem.id": 15502,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:32:00",
"poem.title": "My Wheel Is In The Dark",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15503": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15503,
"poem.id": 15503,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:32:03",
"poem.title": "Just Lost, When I Was Saved!",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15504": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15504,
"poem.id": 15504,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:32:07",
"poem.title": "No Notice Gave She, But A Change",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15507": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15507,
"poem.id": 15507,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:32:11",
"poem.title": "He Gave Away His Life",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15508": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15508,
"poem.id": 15508,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:32:17",
"poem.title": "Patience—has A Quiet Outer",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15509": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15509,
"poem.id": 15509,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:32:19",
"poem.title": "My Soul—accused Me—and I Quailed",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15510": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15510,
"poem.id": 15510,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:32:26",
"poem.title": "Of Nearness To Her Sundered Things",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15511": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15511,
"poem.id": 15511,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:32:32",
"poem.title": "Most She Touched Me By Her Muteness",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15512": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15512,
"poem.id": 15512,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:32:36",
"poem.title": "The One Who Could Repeat The Summer Day",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15513": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15513,
"poem.id": 15513,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:32:42",
"poem.title": "Not",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15514": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15514,
"poem.id": 15514,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:32:47",
"poem.title": "More Life—went Out—when He Went",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15515": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15515,
"poem.id": 15515,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:32:52",
"poem.title": "The Butterfly Upon The Sky",
"poem.date": "12/13/2014",
"poem.content": "The Butterfly upon the Sky,That doesn't know its NameAnd hasn't any tax to payAnd hasn't any HomeIs just as high as you and I,And higher, I believe,So soar away and never sighAnd that's the way to grieve -",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15516": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15516,
"poem.id": 15516,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:32:56",
"poem.title": "Prayer Is The Little Implement",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15518": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15518,
"poem.id": 15518,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:33:02",
"poem.title": "Gratitude—is Not The Mention",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15519": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15519,
"poem.id": 15519,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:33:09",
"poem.title": "Purple—is Fashionable Twice",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15520": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15520,
"poem.id": 15520,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:33:11",
"poem.title": "My Reward For Being, Was This",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15521": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15521,
"poem.id": 15521,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:33:15",
"poem.title": "In This Short Life",
"poem.date": "5/3/2013",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15522": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15522,
"poem.id": 15522,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:33:18",
"poem.title": "The Birds Reported From The South",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15523": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15523,
"poem.id": 15523,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:33:24",
"poem.title": "The Veins Of Other Flowers",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15524": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15524,
"poem.id": 15524,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:33:31",
"poem.title": "So Proud She Was To Die",
"poem.date": "5/15/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15525": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15525,
"poem.id": 15525,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:33:36",
"poem.title": "Proud Of My Broken Heart",
"poem.date": "11/22/2014",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15526": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15526,
"poem.id": 15526,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:33:40",
"poem.title": "The Red—blaze—is The Morning",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15527": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15527,
"poem.id": 15527,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:33:46",
"poem.title": "The Hallowing Of Pain",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15528": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15528,
"poem.id": 15528,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:33:48",
"poem.title": "Renunciation",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15529": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15529,
"poem.id": 15529,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:33:54",
"poem.title": "No Matter—now—sweet",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15530": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15530,
"poem.id": 15530,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:33:58",
"poem.title": "The Day Undressed&Mdash;Herself",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15531": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15531,
"poem.id": 15531,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:34:01",
"poem.title": "There Is A Morn By Men Unseen",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15532": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15532,
"poem.id": 15532,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:34:06",
"poem.title": "I Should Have Been Too Glad, I See",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15533": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15533,
"poem.id": 15533,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:34:08",
"poem.title": "When Katie Walks, This Simple Pair Accompany Her Side",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15534": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15534,
"poem.id": 15534,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:34:10",
"poem.title": "Over And Over, Like A Tune",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15535": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15535,
"poem.id": 15535,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:34:14",
"poem.title": "The Sunrise Runs For Both",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15536": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15536,
"poem.id": 15536,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:34:19",
"poem.title": "He Strained My Faith",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15537": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15537,
"poem.id": 15537,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:34:24",
"poem.title": "The Sun Is Gay Or Stark",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15538": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15538,
"poem.id": 15538,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:34:30",
"poem.title": "Read—sweet—how Others—strove",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15539": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15539,
"poem.id": 15539,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:34:37",
"poem.title": "I Could Die—to Know",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15540": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15540,
"poem.id": 15540,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:34:42",
"poem.title": "So Glad We Are—a Stranger'D Deem",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15541": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15541,
"poem.id": 15541,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:34:47",
"poem.title": "'Tis Little I—could Care For Pearls",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15542": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15542,
"poem.id": 15542,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:34:53",
"poem.title": "One Anguish—in A Crowd",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15543": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15543,
"poem.id": 15543,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:34:56",
"poem.title": "She Staked Her Feathers—gained An Arc",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15544": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15544,
"poem.id": 15544,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:35:01",
"poem.title": "I Showed Her Heights She Never Saw",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15545": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15545,
"poem.id": 15545,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:35:03",
"poem.title": "Some Such Butterfly Be Seen",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15546": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15546,
"poem.id": 15546,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:35:09",
"poem.title": "The Lonesome For They Know Not What",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15547": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15547,
"poem.id": 15547,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:35:13",
"poem.title": "\"470\"",
"poem.date": "5/6/2016",
"poem.content": "How good—to be alive! How infinite—to be Alive—two-fold—The Birth I had And this—besides, in—Thee!",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15548": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15548,
"poem.id": 15548,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:35:20",
"poem.title": "What If I Say I Shall Not Wait!",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15549": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15549,
"poem.id": 15549,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:35:26",
"poem.title": "Time Feels So Vast That Were It Not",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15550": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15550,
"poem.id": 15550,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:35:32",
"poem.title": "No Rack Can Torture Me",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15551": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15551,
"poem.id": 15551,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:35:35",
"poem.title": "Not In This World To See His Face",
"poem.date": "5/15/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15552": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15552,
"poem.id": 15552,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:35:40",
"poem.title": "The Whole Of It Came Not At Once",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15553": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15553,
"poem.id": 15553,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:35:43",
"poem.title": "Put Up My Lute!",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15554": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15554,
"poem.id": 15554,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:35:46",
"poem.title": "It's Such A Little Thing To Weep",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15555": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15555,
"poem.id": 15555,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:35:49",
"poem.title": "What Shall I Do When The Summer Troubles",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15556": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15556,
"poem.id": 15556,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:35:53",
"poem.title": "If This Is \"Fading\"",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15557": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15557,
"poem.id": 15557,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:35:57",
"poem.title": "The Soul's Distinct Connection",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15558": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15558,
"poem.id": 15558,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:36:02",
"poem.title": "Not All Die Early, Dying Young",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15559": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15559,
"poem.id": 15559,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:36:07",
"poem.title": "I Tie My Hat—i Crease My Shawl",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15560": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15560,
"poem.id": 15560,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:36:12",
"poem.title": "The Doomed—regard The Sunrise",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15561": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15561,
"poem.id": 15561,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:36:17",
"poem.title": "I Rose—because He Sank",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15562": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15562,
"poem.id": 15562,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:36:21",
"poem.title": "He Told A Homely Tale",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15563": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15563,
"poem.id": 15563,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:36:28",
"poem.title": "His Feet Are Shod With Gauze",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15564": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15564,
"poem.id": 15564,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:36:32",
"poem.title": "His Bill An Auger Is",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15565": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15565,
"poem.id": 15565,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:36:35",
"poem.title": "Witchcraft Was Hung, In History",
"poem.date": "3/17/2015",
"poem.content": "'Twas such a little - little boatThat toddled down the bay!'Twas such a gallant - gallant seaThat beckoned it away!'Twas such a greedy, greedy waveThat licked it from the Coast - Nor ever guessed the stately sailsMy little craft was lost!",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15566": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15566,
"poem.id": 15566,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:36:39",
"poem.title": "The Drop, That Wrestles In The Sea",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15567": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15567,
"poem.id": 15567,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:36:43",
"poem.title": "If Pain For Peace Prepares",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15568": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15568,
"poem.id": 15568,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:36:48",
"poem.title": "Savior! I'Ve No One Else To Tell",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15569": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15569,
"poem.id": 15569,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:36:52",
"poem.title": "'Tis True—they Shut Me In The Cold",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15570": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15570,
"poem.id": 15570,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:36:58",
"poem.title": "Morning—is The Place For Dew",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15571": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15571,
"poem.id": 15571,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:37:05",
"poem.title": "I Think The Hemlock Likes To Stand",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15572": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15572,
"poem.id": 15572,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:37:08",
"poem.title": "Not \"Revelation\"&Mdash;'Tis&Mdash;That Waits",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15573": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15573,
"poem.id": 15573,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:37:11",
"poem.title": "'Tis Sunrise&Mdash;Little Maid&Mdash;Hast Thou",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15574": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15574,
"poem.id": 15574,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:37:15",
"poem.title": "I Got So I Could Take His Name",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15575": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15575,
"poem.id": 15575,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:37:18",
"poem.title": "If He Dissolve—then—there Is Nothing",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15576": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15576,
"poem.id": 15576,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:37:24",
"poem.title": "Portraits Are To Daily Faces",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15577": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15577,
"poem.id": 15577,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:37:27",
"poem.title": "I Was The Slightest In The House",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15578": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15578,
"poem.id": 15578,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:37:31",
"poem.title": "'Tis One By One — The Father Counts",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15579": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15579,
"poem.id": 15579,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:37:36",
"poem.title": "He Fought Like Those Who'Ve Nought To Lose",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15580": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15580,
"poem.id": 15580,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:37:42",
"poem.title": "Of Being Is A Bird",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15581": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15581,
"poem.id": 15581,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:37:47",
"poem.title": "We Cover Thee—sweet Face",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15582": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15582,
"poem.id": 15582,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:37:51",
"poem.title": "Good Night, Because We Must",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15583": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15583,
"poem.id": 15583,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:37:57",
"poem.title": "We Thirst At First—'Tis Nature's Act",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15584": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15584,
"poem.id": 15584,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:37:59",
"poem.title": "Should You But Fail At—sea",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15585": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15585,
"poem.id": 15585,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:38:04",
"poem.title": "Ourselves Were Wed One Summer—dear",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15586": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15586,
"poem.id": 15586,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:38:10",
"poem.title": "The Good Will Of A Flower",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15587": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15587,
"poem.id": 15587,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:38:13",
"poem.title": "Joy To Have Merited The Pain",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15588": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15588,
"poem.id": 15588,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:38:16",
"poem.title": "Perhaps You'D Like To Buy A Flower",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15589": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15589,
"poem.id": 15589,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:38:21",
"poem.title": "The Woodpecker",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15590": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15590,
"poem.id": 15590,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:38:27",
"poem.title": "She Bore It Till The Simple Veins",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15591": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15591,
"poem.id": 15591,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:38:32",
"poem.title": "We Pray&Mdash;To Heaven",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15592": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15592,
"poem.id": 15592,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:38:35",
"poem.title": "Yesterday Is History",
"poem.date": "3/17/2015",
"poem.content": "Yesterday is History,'Tis so far away - Yesterday is Poetry - 'Tis Philosophy - Yesterday is mystery - Where it is TodayWhile we shrewdly speculateFlutter both away",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15593": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15593,
"poem.id": 15593,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:38:39",
"poem.title": "Wolfe Demanded During Dying",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15594": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15594,
"poem.id": 15594,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:38:42",
"poem.title": "Her Sweet Turn To Leave The Homestead",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15595": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15595,
"poem.id": 15595,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:38:47",
"poem.title": "This Heart That Broke So Long",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15596": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15596,
"poem.id": 15596,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:38:50",
"poem.title": "I'Ll Clutch—and Clutch",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15597": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15597,
"poem.id": 15597,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:38:55",
"poem.title": "To Interrupt His Yellow Plan",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15598": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15598,
"poem.id": 15598,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:39:01",
"poem.title": "I Have A King, Who Does Not Speak",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15599": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15599,
"poem.id": 15599,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:39:05",
"poem.title": "My Period Had Come For Prayer",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15600": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15600,
"poem.id": 15600,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:39:08",
"poem.title": "So Well That I Can Live Without",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15601": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15601,
"poem.id": 15601,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:39:11",
"poem.title": "'Tis Opposites&Mdash;Entice",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15602": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15602,
"poem.id": 15602,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:39:15",
"poem.title": "I Had Some Things That I Called Mine",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15603": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15603,
"poem.id": 15603,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:39:18",
"poem.title": "She Went As Quiet As The Dew",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15604": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15604,
"poem.id": 15604,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:39:20",
"poem.title": "I Think To Live—may Be A Bliss",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15605": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15605,
"poem.id": 15605,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:39:24",
"poem.title": "When I Was Small, A Woman Died",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15606": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15606,
"poem.id": 15606,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:39:27",
"poem.title": "What Would I Give To See His Face?",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15607": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15607,
"poem.id": 15607,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:39:34",
"poem.title": "Ideals Are The Fairly Oil",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15609": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15609,
"poem.id": 15609,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:39:38",
"poem.title": "The Battlefield",
"poem.date": "5/25/2015",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15610": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15610,
"poem.id": 15610,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:39:43",
"poem.title": "Through The Strait Pass Of Suffering",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15611": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15611,
"poem.id": 15611,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:39:49",
"poem.title": "I'Ve Known A Heaven, Like A Tent",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15612": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15612,
"poem.id": 15612,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:39:54",
"poem.title": "Over The Fence",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15613": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15613,
"poem.id": 15613,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:40:00",
"poem.title": "When I Have Seen The Sun Emerge",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15615": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15615,
"poem.id": 15615,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:40:05",
"poem.title": "The Fingers Of The Light",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15616": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15616,
"poem.id": 15616,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:40:11",
"poem.title": "I Cannot Be Ashamed",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15617": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15617,
"poem.id": 15617,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:40:14",
"poem.title": "We—bee And I—live By The Quaffing",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15618": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15618,
"poem.id": 15618,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:40:19",
"poem.title": "Why Make It Doubt—it Hurts It So",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15619": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15619,
"poem.id": 15619,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:40:22",
"poem.title": "The Murmur Of A Bee",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15620": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15620,
"poem.id": 15620,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:40:27",
"poem.title": "The Wind Didn'T Come From The Orchard—today",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15621": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15621,
"poem.id": 15621,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:40:31",
"poem.title": "No Man Can Compass A Despair",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15622": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15622,
"poem.id": 15622,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:40:37",
"poem.title": "This Chasm, Sweet, Upon My Life",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15623": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15623,
"poem.id": 15623,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:40:40",
"poem.title": "One Life Of So Much Consequence!",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15624": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15624,
"poem.id": 15624,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:40:46",
"poem.title": "If Any Sink, Assure That This, Now Standing",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15625": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15625,
"poem.id": 15625,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:40:50",
"poem.title": "I Had Not Minded—walls",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15626": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15626,
"poem.id": 15626,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:40:56",
"poem.title": "I Gained It So",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15627": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15627,
"poem.id": 15627,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:40:59",
"poem.title": "Only God—detect The Sorrow",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15628": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15628,
"poem.id": 15628,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:41:02",
"poem.title": "Partake As Doth The Bee",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15629": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15629,
"poem.id": 15629,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:41:07",
"poem.title": "Publication",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15632": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15632,
"poem.id": 15632,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:41:10",
"poem.title": "This Is The Land The Sunset Washes,",
"poem.date": "5/15/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15633": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15633,
"poem.id": 15633,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:41:14",
"poem.title": "Who Were 'The Father And The Son'",
"poem.date": "3/3/2015",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15634": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15634,
"poem.id": 15634,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:41:19",
"poem.title": "I Met A King This Afternoon!",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15635": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15635,
"poem.id": 15635,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:41:22",
"poem.title": "Mine—by The Right Of The White Election!",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15636": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15636,
"poem.id": 15636,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:41:27",
"poem.title": "Me! Come! My Dazzled Face",
"poem.date": "5/15/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15637": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15637,
"poem.id": 15637,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:41:31",
"poem.title": "Dying At My Music",
"poem.date": "12/2/2014",
"poem.content": "Dying at my music!Bubble! Bubble!Hold me till the Octave's run!Quick! Burst the Windows!Ritardando!Phials left, and the Sun!",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15638": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15638,
"poem.id": 15638,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:41:38",
"poem.title": "Went Up A Year This Evening!",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15639": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15639,
"poem.id": 15639,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:41:41",
"poem.title": "Where Thou Art—that—is Home",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15640": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15640,
"poem.id": 15640,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:41:47",
"poem.title": "I Cross Till I Am Weary",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15641": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15641,
"poem.id": 15641,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:41:50",
"poem.title": "If Blame Be My Side—forfeit Me",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15642": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15642,
"poem.id": 15642,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:41:54",
"poem.title": "The Province Of The Saved",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15643": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15643,
"poem.id": 15643,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:41:57",
"poem.title": "The Malay—took The Pearl",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15644": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15644,
"poem.id": 15644,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:42:00",
"poem.title": "The Sun Kept Stooping—stooping",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15645": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15645,
"poem.id": 15645,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:42:06",
"poem.title": "I Pay—in Satin Cash",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15646": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15646,
"poem.id": 15646,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:42:09",
"poem.title": "Three Times—we Parted—breath—and I",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15647": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15647,
"poem.id": 15647,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:42:15",
"poem.title": "If The Foolish, Call Them \"Flowers\"",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15648": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15648,
"poem.id": 15648,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:42:20",
"poem.title": "With A Flower",
"poem.date": "1/2/2015",
"poem.content": "I hide myself within my flower,That wearing on your breast,You, unsuspecting, wear me too -And angels know the rest.I hide myself within my flower,That, fading from your vase,You, unsuspecting, feel for meAlmost a loneliness.",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15649": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15649,
"poem.id": 15649,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:42:26",
"poem.title": "If Recollecting Were Forgetting",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15650": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15650,
"poem.id": 15650,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:42:31",
"poem.title": "It's Easy To Invent A Life",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15651": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15651,
"poem.id": 15651,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:42:38",
"poem.title": "He Put The Belt Around My Life",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15652": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15652,
"poem.id": 15652,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:42:44",
"poem.title": "The Bird Must Sing To Earn The Crumb",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15653": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15653,
"poem.id": 15653,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:42:46",
"poem.title": "May-Flower",
"poem.date": "1/2/2015",
"poem.content": "Pink, small, and punctual,Aromatic, low,Covert in April,Candid in May, Dear to the moss,Known by the knoll,Next to the robinIn every human soul. Bold little beauty,Bedecked with thee,Nature forswearsAntiquity.",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15654": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15654,
"poem.id": 15654,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:42:50",
"poem.title": "I Lived On Dread; To Those Who Know",
"poem.date": "5/15/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15655": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15655,
"poem.id": 15655,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:42:54",
"poem.title": "I Could Suffice For Him, I Knew",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15656": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15656,
"poem.id": 15656,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:42:56",
"poem.title": "Whether My Bark Went Down At Sea",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15657": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15657,
"poem.id": 15657,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:43:03",
"poem.title": "Musicians Wrestle Everywhere",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15658": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15658,
"poem.id": 15658,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:43:06",
"poem.title": "'Tis Good&Mdash;The Looking Back On Grief",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15659": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15659,
"poem.id": 15659,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:43:10",
"poem.title": "The World&Mdash;Feels Dusty",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15660": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15660,
"poem.id": 15660,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:43:12",
"poem.title": "The Chemical Conviction",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15661": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15661,
"poem.id": 15661,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:43:15",
"poem.title": "Light Is Sufficient To Itself",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15662": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15662,
"poem.id": 15662,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:43:19",
"poem.title": "What Inn Is This",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15663": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15663,
"poem.id": 15663,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:43:23",
"poem.title": "Sleep Is Supposed To Be",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15664": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15664,
"poem.id": 15664,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:43:28",
"poem.title": "The Judge Is Like The Owl",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15665": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15665,
"poem.id": 15665,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:43:34",
"poem.title": "The Service Without Hope",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15666": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15666,
"poem.id": 15666,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:43:40",
"poem.title": "The Beggar Lad&Mdash;Dies Early",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15667": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15667,
"poem.id": 15667,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:43:43",
"poem.title": "I Read My Sentence—steadily",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15668": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15668,
"poem.id": 15668,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:43:49",
"poem.title": "The Dying Need But Little, Dear,--",
"poem.date": "5/15/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15669": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15669,
"poem.id": 15669,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:43:55",
"poem.title": "The Manner Of Its Death",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15670": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15670,
"poem.id": 15670,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:43:59",
"poem.title": "Through The Dark Sod—as Education",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15671": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15671,
"poem.id": 15671,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:44:03",
"poem.title": "On This Wondrous Sea",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15672": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15672,
"poem.id": 15672,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:44:08",
"poem.title": "The Birds Begun At Four O'Clock",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15673": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15673,
"poem.id": 15673,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:44:13",
"poem.title": "Papa Above!",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15674": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15674,
"poem.id": 15674,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:44:19",
"poem.title": "The Outer—from The Inner",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15675": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15675,
"poem.id": 15675,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:44:26",
"poem.title": "So Bashful When I Spied Her!",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15676": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15676,
"poem.id": 15676,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:44:28",
"poem.title": "Many A Phrase Has The English Language",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15677": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15677,
"poem.id": 15677,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:44:35",
"poem.title": "This Is A Blossom Of The Brain",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15678": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15678,
"poem.id": 15678,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:44:37",
"poem.title": "Have Any Like Myself",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15680": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15680,
"poem.id": 15680,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:44:43",
"poem.title": "Like Eyes That Looked On Wastes",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15681": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15681,
"poem.id": 15681,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:44:46",
"poem.title": "Of Bronze—and Blaze",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15682": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15682,
"poem.id": 15682,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:44:52",
"poem.title": "We Don'T Cry—tim And I",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15683": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15683,
"poem.id": 15683,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:44:54",
"poem.title": "It's Like The Light, --",
"poem.date": "5/15/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15684": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15684,
"poem.id": 15684,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:44:58",
"poem.title": "Heart, Not So Heavy As Mine",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15685": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15685,
"poem.id": 15685,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:45:04",
"poem.title": "How firm Eternity must look",
"poem.date": "4/6/2016",
"poem.content": "How firm Eternity must lookTo crumbling men like meThe only Adamant EstateIn all Identity - How mighty to the insecureThy PhysiognomyTo whom not any Face cohere - Unless concealed in thee",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15686": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15686,
"poem.id": 15686,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:45:08",
"poem.title": "So Set Its Sun In Thee",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15687": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15687,
"poem.id": 15687,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:45:10",
"poem.title": "The Body Grows Without",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15688": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15688,
"poem.id": 15688,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:45:13",
"poem.title": "The Lady Feeds Her Little Bird",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15689": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15689,
"poem.id": 15689,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:45:17",
"poem.title": "I Know Lives, I Could Miss",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15690": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15690,
"poem.id": 15690,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:45:23",
"poem.title": "Of Course—i Prayed",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15691": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15691,
"poem.id": 15691,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:45:28",
"poem.title": "When We Stand On The Tops Of Things",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15692": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15692,
"poem.id": 15692,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:45:33",
"poem.title": "It's Coming—the Postponeless Creature",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15693": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15693,
"poem.id": 15693,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:45:35",
"poem.title": "Nature—sometimes Sears A Sapling",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15694": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15694,
"poem.id": 15694,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:45:41",
"poem.title": "Fate Slew Him, But He Did Not Drop",
"poem.date": "3/3/2015",
"poem.content": "FATE slew him, but he did not drop;She felled—he did not fall—Impaled him on her fiercest stakes—He neutralized them all.She stung him, sapped his firm advance,But, when her worst was done,And he, unmoved, regarded her,Acknowledged him a man.",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15695": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15695,
"poem.id": 15695,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:45:45",
"poem.title": "The Color Of A Queen, Is This",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15696": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15696,
"poem.id": 15696,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:45:49",
"poem.title": "To Hear An Oriole Sing",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15697": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15697,
"poem.id": 15697,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:45:54",
"poem.title": "The Sunset Stopped On Cottages",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15698": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15698,
"poem.id": 15698,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:45:58",
"poem.title": "Myself Was Formed—a Carpenter",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15699": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15699,
"poem.id": 15699,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:46:04",
"poem.title": "I Know Where Wells Grow—droughtless Wells",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15700": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15700,
"poem.id": 15700,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:46:11",
"poem.title": "What Is—",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15701": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15701,
"poem.id": 15701,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:46:14",
"poem.title": "I Keep My Pledge",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15702": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15702,
"poem.id": 15702,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:46:18",
"poem.title": "I Breathed Enough To Learn The Trick,",
"poem.date": "5/14/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15703": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15703,
"poem.id": 15703,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:46:23",
"poem.title": "Ribbons Of The Year",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15705": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15705,
"poem.id": 15705,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:46:26",
"poem.title": "I Lived On Dread",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15706": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15706,
"poem.id": 15706,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:46:29",
"poem.title": "I Made Slow Riches But My Gain",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15707": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15707,
"poem.id": 15707,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:46:33",
"poem.title": "They Dropped Like Flakes",
"poem.date": "5/15/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15708": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15708,
"poem.id": 15708,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:46:39",
"poem.title": "When Diamonds Are A Legend",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15709": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15709,
"poem.id": 15709,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:46:41",
"poem.title": "Precious To Me—she Still Shall Be",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15710": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15710,
"poem.id": 15710,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:46:46",
"poem.title": "'Tis So Appalling&Mdash;It Exhilarates",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15711": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15711,
"poem.id": 15711,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:46:52",
"poem.title": "Pain Has An Element",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15712": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15712,
"poem.id": 15712,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:46:59",
"poem.title": "The Soul Unto Itself (683)",
"poem.date": "1/20/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15713": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15713,
"poem.id": 15713,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:47:02",
"poem.title": "So Much Summer",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15714": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15714,
"poem.id": 15714,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:47:06",
"poem.title": "I Went To Heaven,--",
"poem.date": "5/15/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15715": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15715,
"poem.id": 15715,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:47:10",
"poem.title": "Who Never Lost, Are Unprepared",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15716": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15716,
"poem.id": 15716,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:47:15",
"poem.title": "If It Had No Pencil",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15717": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15717,
"poem.id": 15717,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:47:21",
"poem.title": "Like Some Old Fashioned Miracle",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15718": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15718,
"poem.id": 15718,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:47:24",
"poem.title": "I Could Not Prove The Years Had Feet",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15719": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15719,
"poem.id": 15719,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:47:28",
"poem.title": "I Cannot Buy It—'Tis Not Sold",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15720": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15720,
"poem.id": 15720,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:47:33",
"poem.title": "Her—",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15721": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15721,
"poem.id": 15721,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:47:39",
"poem.title": "Great Caesar! Condescend",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15722": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15722,
"poem.id": 15722,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:47:45",
"poem.title": "The Power To Be True To You",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15729": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15729,
"poem.id": 15729,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:47:49",
"poem.title": "It Would Have Starved A Gnat",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15731": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15731,
"poem.id": 15731,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:47:53",
"poem.title": "When Night Is Almost Done",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15732": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15732,
"poem.id": 15732,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:47:55",
"poem.title": "We Lose—because We Win",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15742": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15742,
"poem.id": 15742,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:48:00",
"poem.title": "One And One—are One",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15743": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15743,
"poem.id": 15743,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:48:03",
"poem.title": "I Never Told The Buried Gold",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15744": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15744,
"poem.id": 15744,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:48:08",
"poem.title": "When I Hoped, I Recollect",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15745": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15745,
"poem.id": 15745,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:48:13",
"poem.title": "The Rose Did Caper On Her Cheek",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15746": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15746,
"poem.id": 15746,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:48:16",
"poem.title": "We Like March, His Shoes Are Purple,",
"poem.date": "5/15/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15747": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15747,
"poem.id": 15747,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:48:22",
"poem.title": "We Should Not Mind So Small A Flower",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15748": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15748,
"poem.id": 15748,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:48:26",
"poem.title": "Glowing Is Her Bonnet",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15749": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15749,
"poem.id": 15749,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:48:30",
"poem.title": "To Die—takes Just A Little While",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15750": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15750,
"poem.id": 15750,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:48:34",
"poem.title": "I Saw No Way—the Heavens Were Stitched",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15751": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15751,
"poem.id": 15751,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:48:39",
"poem.title": "Good Night! Which Put The Candle Out?",
"poem.date": "5/14/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15752": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15752,
"poem.id": 15752,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:48:45",
"poem.title": "I Play At Riches—to Appease",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15753": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15753,
"poem.id": 15753,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:48:50",
"poem.title": "There Is A Word",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15754": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15754,
"poem.id": 15754,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:48:56",
"poem.title": "The Pedigree Of Honey",
"poem.date": "5/15/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15755": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15755,
"poem.id": 15755,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:49:00",
"poem.title": "I Know A Place Where Summer Strives",
"poem.date": "5/15/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15756": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15756,
"poem.id": 15756,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:49:04",
"poem.title": "I Tend My Flowers For Thee",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15757": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15757,
"poem.id": 15757,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:49:08",
"poem.title": "Our Lives Are Swiss",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15759": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15759,
"poem.id": 15759,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:49:15",
"poem.title": "I'M Saying Every Day",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15760": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15760,
"poem.id": 15760,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:49:17",
"poem.title": "To Learn The Transport By The Pain",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15761": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15761,
"poem.id": 15761,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:49:21",
"poem.title": "Heaven Has Different Signs—to Me",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15762": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15762,
"poem.id": 15762,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:49:28",
"poem.title": "Her Sweet Weight On My Heart A Night",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15763": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15763,
"poem.id": 15763,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:49:32",
"poem.title": "The Trees Like Tassels—hit—and Swung",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15764": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15764,
"poem.id": 15764,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:49:36",
"poem.title": "My Faith Is Larger Than The Hills",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15765": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15765,
"poem.id": 15765,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:49:39",
"poem.title": "Pain&Mdash;Expands The Time",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15766": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15766,
"poem.id": 15766,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:49:44",
"poem.title": "The Difference Between Despair",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15767": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15767,
"poem.id": 15767,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:49:48",
"poem.title": "Her&Mdash;\"Last Poems\"",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15768": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15768,
"poem.id": 15768,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:49:51",
"poem.title": "I Am Ashamed—i Hide",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15769": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15769,
"poem.id": 15769,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:49:55",
"poem.title": "Promise This—when You Be Dying",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15770": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15770,
"poem.id": 15770,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:50:00",
"poem.title": "He Touched Me, So I Live To Know",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15771": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15771,
"poem.id": 15771,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:50:07",
"poem.title": "He Was Weak, And I Was Strong—then",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15772": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15772,
"poem.id": 15772,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:50:09",
"poem.title": "I Shall Keep Singing!",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15773": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15773,
"poem.id": 15773,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:50:12",
"poem.title": "The Sun Kept Setting—setting—still",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15774": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15774,
"poem.id": 15774,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:50:18",
"poem.title": "I Live With Him—i See His Face",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15775": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15775,
"poem.id": 15775,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:50:22",
"poem.title": "The Winters Are So Short",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15776": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15776,
"poem.id": 15776,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:50:28",
"poem.title": "The Sun And Moon Must Make Their Haste",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15777": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15777,
"poem.id": 15777,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:50:32",
"poem.title": "She Sped As Petals Of A Rose",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15778": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15778,
"poem.id": 15778,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:50:35",
"poem.title": "I Ment To Find Her When I Came;",
"poem.date": "5/15/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15779": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15779,
"poem.id": 15779,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:50:40",
"poem.title": "Whose Are The Little Beds, I Asked",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15780": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15780,
"poem.id": 15780,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:50:42",
"poem.title": "The Mountain Sat Upon The Plain",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15781": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15781,
"poem.id": 15781,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:50:45",
"poem.title": "One Dignity Delays For All",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15782": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15782,
"poem.id": 15782,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:50:51",
"poem.title": "I Think Just How My Shape Will Rise",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15783": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15783,
"poem.id": 15783,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:50:56",
"poem.title": "I Robbed The Woods",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15784": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15784,
"poem.id": 15784,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:50:59",
"poem.title": "The Poets Light But Lamps",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15785": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15785,
"poem.id": 15785,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:51:04",
"poem.title": "Poor Little Heart!",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15786": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15786,
"poem.id": 15786,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:51:10",
"poem.title": "My Portion Is Defeat—today",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15787": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15787,
"poem.id": 15787,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:51:15",
"poem.title": "He Forgot—and I—remembered",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15788": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15788,
"poem.id": 15788,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:51:18",
"poem.title": "I Prayed, At First, A Little Girl",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15789": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15789,
"poem.id": 15789,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:51:24",
"poem.title": "The Feet Of People Walking Home",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15790": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15790,
"poem.id": 15790,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:51:30",
"poem.title": "I Cried At Pity—not At Pain",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15791": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15791,
"poem.id": 15791,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:51:33",
"poem.title": "I Cautious, Scanned My Little Life",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15792": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15792,
"poem.id": 15792,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:51:38",
"poem.title": "If I'M Lost&Mdash;Now",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15793": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15793,
"poem.id": 15793,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:51:45",
"poem.title": "I Meant To Have But Modest Needs",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15794": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15794,
"poem.id": 15794,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:51:50",
"poem.title": "The Way I Read A Letter's—this",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15795": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15795,
"poem.id": 15795,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:51:54",
"poem.title": "I Never Felt At Home—below",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15796": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15796,
"poem.id": 15796,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:51:56",
"poem.title": "What Soft—cherubic Creatures",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15797": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15797,
"poem.id": 15797,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:52:00",
"poem.title": "The Truth—is Stirless",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15798": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15798,
"poem.id": 15798,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:52:03",
"poem.title": "There's Been A Death In The Opposite House",
"poem.date": "5/15/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15801": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15801,
"poem.id": 15801,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:52:09",
"poem.title": "I Never Hear The Word 'Escape'",
"poem.date": "5/15/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15802": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15802,
"poem.id": 15802,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:52:12",
"poem.title": "I Fear A Man Of Frugal Speech",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15803": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15803,
"poem.id": 15803,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:52:18",
"poem.title": "I Bring An Unaccustomed Wine",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15804": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15804,
"poem.id": 15804,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:52:23",
"poem.title": "'Tis Not That Dying Hurts Us So",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15805": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15805,
"poem.id": 15805,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:52:27",
"poem.title": "Love—is That Later Thing Than Death",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15806": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15806,
"poem.id": 15806,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:52:31",
"poem.title": "I Asked No Other Thing",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15807": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15807,
"poem.id": 15807,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:52:35",
"poem.title": "God Is A Distant—stately Lover",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15808": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15808,
"poem.id": 15808,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:52:41",
"poem.title": "Where I Have Lost, I Softer Tread",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15809": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15809,
"poem.id": 15809,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:52:46",
"poem.title": "I Have Never Seen \"Volcanoes\"",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15810": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15810,
"poem.id": 15810,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:53:00",
"poem.title": "Had I Not This, Or This, I Said",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15811": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15811,
"poem.id": 15811,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:53:04",
"poem.title": "Knows How To Forget!",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15813": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15813,
"poem.id": 15813,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:53:06",
"poem.title": "She Sweeps With Many-Colored Brooms,",
"poem.date": "5/15/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15814": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15814,
"poem.id": 15814,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:53:09",
"poem.title": "Mama Never Forgets Her Birds",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15815": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15815,
"poem.id": 15815,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:53:14",
"poem.title": "My Friend Attacks My Friend!",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15816": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15816,
"poem.id": 15816,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:53:18",
"poem.title": "If I May Have It, When It's Dead",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15817": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15817,
"poem.id": 15817,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:53:22",
"poem.title": "God Permit Industrious Angels",
"poem.date": "5/14/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15818": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15818,
"poem.id": 15818,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:53:25",
"poem.title": "Till Death—is Narrow Loving",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15819": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15819,
"poem.id": 15819,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:53:31",
"poem.title": "The Day Came Slow",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15820": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15820,
"poem.id": 15820,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:53:34",
"poem.title": "How Sick—to Wait—in Any Place—but Thine",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15821": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15821,
"poem.id": 15821,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:53:36",
"poem.title": "The Brain, Within Its Groove",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15822": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15822,
"poem.id": 15822,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:53:40",
"poem.title": "New Feet Within My Garden Go",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15823": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15823,
"poem.id": 15823,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:53:42",
"poem.title": "Pain",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15824": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15824,
"poem.id": 15824,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:53:48",
"poem.title": "Robbed By Death—but That Was Easy",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15825": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15825,
"poem.id": 15825,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:53:54",
"poem.title": "Peace Is A Fiction Of Our Faith",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15826": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15826,
"poem.id": 15826,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:53:57",
"poem.title": "How Noteless Men, And Pleiads, Stand",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15827": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15827,
"poem.id": 15827,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:54:03",
"poem.title": "Some Rainbow—coming From The Fair!",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15828": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15828,
"poem.id": 15828,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:54:08",
"poem.title": "Woodpecker, The",
"poem.date": "12/31/2002",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15829": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15829,
"poem.id": 15829,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:54:11",
"poem.title": "Love—is Anterior To Life",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15830": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15830,
"poem.id": 15830,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:54:13",
"poem.title": "The Nearest Dream Recedes, Unrealized.",
"poem.date": "12/31/2002",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15831": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15831,
"poem.id": 15831,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:54:18",
"poem.title": "The Love A Life Can Show Below",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15833": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15833,
"poem.id": 15833,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:54:23",
"poem.title": "The Color Of The Grave Is Green",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15834": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15834,
"poem.id": 15834,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:54:26",
"poem.title": "If Anybody's Friend Be Dead",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15835": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15835,
"poem.id": 15835,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:54:29",
"poem.title": "I Stole Them From A Bee",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15836": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15836,
"poem.id": 15836,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:54:33",
"poem.title": "The Only News I Know",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15838": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15838,
"poem.id": 15838,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:54:37",
"poem.title": "I Haven'T Told My Garden Yet",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15839": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15839,
"poem.id": 15839,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:54:42",
"poem.title": "If Those I Loved Were Lost",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15840": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15840,
"poem.id": 15840,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:54:45",
"poem.title": "When Roses Cease To Bloom, Sir",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15841": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15841,
"poem.id": 15841,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:54:48",
"poem.title": "Her Grace Is All She Has&Mdash;",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15842": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15842,
"poem.id": 15842,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:54:54",
"poem.title": "I Had A Guinea Golden",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15844": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15844,
"poem.id": 15844,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:54:56",
"poem.title": "The Only Ghost I Ever Saw",
"poem.date": "5/15/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15845": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15845,
"poem.id": 15845,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:55:03",
"poem.title": "On A Columnar Self",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15854": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15854,
"poem.id": 15854,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:55:09",
"poem.title": "I Came To Buy A Smile—today",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15856": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15856,
"poem.id": 15856,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:55:15",
"poem.title": "I Learned—at Least—what Home Could Be",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15857": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15857,
"poem.id": 15857,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:55:21",
"poem.title": "I Watched The Moon Around The House (629)",
"poem.date": "1/20/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15858": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15858,
"poem.id": 15858,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:55:27",
"poem.title": "I Can'T Tell You—but You Feel It",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15859": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15859,
"poem.id": 15859,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:55:34",
"poem.title": "My Nosegays Are For Captives;",
"poem.date": "5/15/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15860": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15860,
"poem.id": 15860,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:55:36",
"poem.title": "The Daisy Follows Soft The Sun",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15861": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15861,
"poem.id": 15861,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:55:39",
"poem.title": "Would You Like Summer? Taste Of Ours",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15862": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15862,
"poem.id": 15862,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:55:41",
"poem.title": "There Came A Day At Summer's Full",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15863": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15863,
"poem.id": 15863,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:55:45",
"poem.title": "My Garden—like The Beach",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15864": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15864,
"poem.id": 15864,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:55:50",
"poem.title": "The Test Of Love—is Death",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15865": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15865,
"poem.id": 15865,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:55:53",
"poem.title": "She Died—this Was The Way She Died",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15866": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15866,
"poem.id": 15866,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:55:55",
"poem.title": "Love&Mdash;Thou Art High",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15867": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15867,
"poem.id": 15867,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:56:02",
"poem.title": "I Know Some Lonely Houses Off The Road",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15868": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15868,
"poem.id": 15868,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:56:05",
"poem.title": "I Send Two Sunsets",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15869": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15869,
"poem.id": 15869,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:56:10",
"poem.title": "Given In Marriage Unto Thee",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15870": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15870,
"poem.id": 15870,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:56:14",
"poem.title": "I Could Bring You Jewels—had I A Mind To",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15871": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15871,
"poem.id": 15871,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:56:16",
"poem.title": "I Think The Longest Hour Of All",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15872": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15872,
"poem.id": 15872,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:56:21",
"poem.title": "While It Is Alive",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15873": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15873,
"poem.id": 15873,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:56:26",
"poem.title": "The Skies Can'T Keep Their Secret!",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15874": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15874,
"poem.id": 15874,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:56:29",
"poem.title": "The Sun—just Touched The Morning",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15875": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15875,
"poem.id": 15875,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:56:32",
"poem.title": "I Lost A World - The Other Day!",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15876": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15876,
"poem.id": 15876,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:56:36",
"poem.title": "I Can Wade Grief",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15877": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15877,
"poem.id": 15877,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:56:41",
"poem.title": "I Know That He Exists",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15879": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15879,
"poem.id": 15879,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:56:47",
"poem.title": "My Worthiness Is All My Doubt",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15881": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15881,
"poem.id": 15881,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:56:52",
"poem.title": "Some Things That Fly There Be",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15882": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15882,
"poem.id": 15882,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:56:57",
"poem.title": "I Years Had Been From Home,",
"poem.date": "5/15/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15883": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15883,
"poem.id": 15883,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:57:03",
"poem.title": "Without This—there Is Nought",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15884": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15884,
"poem.id": 15884,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:57:05",
"poem.title": "Water Makes Many Beds",
"poem.date": "11/24/2014",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15885": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15885,
"poem.id": 15885,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:57:09",
"poem.title": "I Went To Thank Her",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15886": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15886,
"poem.id": 15886,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:57:12",
"poem.title": "Make Me A Picture Of The Sun",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15887": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15887,
"poem.id": 15887,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:57:18",
"poem.title": "Nature And God—i Neither Knew",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15888": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15888,
"poem.id": 15888,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:57:25",
"poem.title": "There Came A Wind Like A Bugle",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15889": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15889,
"poem.id": 15889,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:57:27",
"poem.title": "The Wind Tapped Like A Tired Man,",
"poem.date": "5/15/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15890": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15890,
"poem.id": 15890,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:57:30",
"poem.title": "Rest At Night",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15891": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15891,
"poem.id": 15891,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:57:33",
"poem.title": "I Meant To Find Her When I Came",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15892": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15892,
"poem.id": 15892,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:57:38",
"poem.title": "I'M \"Wife\"&Mdash;I'Ve Finished That",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15894": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15894,
"poem.id": 15894,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:57:41",
"poem.title": "How The Old Mountains Drip With Sunset",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15895": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15895,
"poem.id": 15895,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:57:47",
"poem.title": "The Soul Has Bandaged Moments",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15897": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15897,
"poem.id": 15897,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:57:54",
"poem.title": "The Definition Of Beauty Is",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15898": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15898,
"poem.id": 15898,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:57:56",
"poem.title": "Safe In Their Alabaster Chambers,",
"poem.date": "5/15/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15899": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15899,
"poem.id": 15899,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:58:01",
"poem.title": "Me Prove It Now—whoever Doubt",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15901": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15901,
"poem.id": 15901,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:58:03",
"poem.title": "The Name—of It—is 'Autumn'",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15902": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15902,
"poem.id": 15902,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:58:10",
"poem.title": "Unto Like Story—trouble Has Enticed Me",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15903": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15903,
"poem.id": 15903,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:58:14",
"poem.title": "She Slept Beneath A Tree",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15904": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15904,
"poem.id": 15904,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:58:18",
"poem.title": "The Chariot",
"poem.date": "4/28/2011",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15906": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15906,
"poem.id": 15906,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:58:22",
"poem.title": "Like Trains Of Cars On Tracks Of Plush",
"poem.date": "5/15/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15908": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15908,
"poem.id": 15908,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:58:26",
"poem.title": "God Made A Little Gentian",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15909": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15909,
"poem.id": 15909,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:58:28",
"poem.title": "I See Thee Better—in The Dark",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15910": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15910,
"poem.id": 15910,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:58:35",
"poem.title": "Had I Presumed To Hope",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15911": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15911,
"poem.id": 15911,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:58:39",
"poem.title": "Within My Reach!",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15912": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15912,
"poem.id": 15912,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:58:43",
"poem.title": "I Felt A Cleaving In My Mind",
"poem.date": "5/15/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15913": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15913,
"poem.id": 15913,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:58:49",
"poem.title": "I Envy Seas, Whereon He Rides",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15914": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15914,
"poem.id": 15914,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:58:55",
"poem.title": "The Grass So Little Has To Do",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15915": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15915,
"poem.id": 15915,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:59:01",
"poem.title": "If I Shouldn'T Be Alive",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15916": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15916,
"poem.id": 15916,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:59:06",
"poem.title": "A Little Snow Was Here And There",
"poem.date": "1/8/2015",
"poem.content": "A little Snow was here and thereDisseminated in her Hair - Since she and I had met and playedDecade had gathered to Decade - But Time had added not obtainedImpregnable the RoseFor summer too indelibleToo obdurate for Snows -",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15917": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15917,
"poem.id": 15917,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:59:11",
"poem.title": "In Ebon Box, When Years Have Flown",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15918": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15918,
"poem.id": 15918,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:59:16",
"poem.title": "I Am Alive - I Guess",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15919": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15919,
"poem.id": 15919,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:59:23",
"poem.title": "I Would Not Paint—a Picture",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15920": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15920,
"poem.id": 15920,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:59:29",
"poem.title": "Uncertain Lease—develops Lustre",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15921": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15921,
"poem.id": 15921,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:59:35",
"poem.title": "Heaven Is So Far Of The Mind",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15922": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15922,
"poem.id": 15922,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:59:42",
"poem.title": "The Leaves Like Women Interchange",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15923": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15923,
"poem.id": 15923,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:59:46",
"poem.title": "I Shall Know Why—when Time Is Over",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15924": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15924,
"poem.id": 15924,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:59:51",
"poem.title": "To Die",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15925": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15925,
"poem.id": 15925,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 02:59:57",
"poem.title": "",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15926": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15926,
"poem.id": 15926,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:00:01",
"poem.title": "This Was A Poet&Mdash;It Is That",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15927": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15927,
"poem.id": 15927,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:00:04",
"poem.title": "Grief Is A Mouse",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15928": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15928,
"poem.id": 15928,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:00:08",
"poem.title": "In Rags Mysterious As These",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15929": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15929,
"poem.id": 15929,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:00:11",
"poem.title": "I Have A Bird In Spring",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15930": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15930,
"poem.id": 15930,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:00:17",
"poem.title": "Her Breast Is Fit For Pearls",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15931": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15931,
"poem.id": 15931,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:00:19",
"poem.title": "You Cannot Put A Fire Out",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15932": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15932,
"poem.id": 15932,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:00:26",
"poem.title": "Love&Mdash;Is Anterior To Life",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15935": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15935,
"poem.id": 15935,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:00:32",
"poem.title": "The First Day's Night Had Come",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15936": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15936,
"poem.id": 15936,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:00:35",
"poem.title": "Presentiment Is That Long Shadow On The Lawn",
"poem.date": "5/15/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15937": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15937,
"poem.id": 15937,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:00:41",
"poem.title": "Unit, Like Death, For Whom?",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15938": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15938,
"poem.id": 15938,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:00:43",
"poem.title": "My River Runs To Thee",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15940": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15940,
"poem.id": 15940,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:00:49",
"poem.title": "Our Journey Had Advanced;",
"poem.date": "5/15/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15941": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15941,
"poem.id": 15941,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:00:51",
"poem.title": "Sic Transit Gloria Mundi",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15942": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15942,
"poem.id": 15942,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:00:58",
"poem.title": "On This Long Storm The Rainbow Rose",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15943": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15943,
"poem.id": 15943,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:01:02",
"poem.title": "We Can But Follow To The Sun",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15944": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15944,
"poem.id": 15944,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:01:09",
"poem.title": "If Your Nerve, Deny You",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15945": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15945,
"poem.id": 15945,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:01:12",
"poem.title": "To Fight Aloud, Is Very Brave",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15946": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15946,
"poem.id": 15946,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:01:14",
"poem.title": "Pain Has An Element Of Blank;",
"poem.date": "5/15/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15947": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15947,
"poem.id": 15947,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:01:18",
"poem.title": "I Had No Time To Hate, Because",
"poem.date": "5/15/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15948": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15948,
"poem.id": 15948,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:01:23",
"poem.title": "Two—were Immortal Twice",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15949": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15949,
"poem.id": 15949,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:01:29",
"poem.title": "The Moon Was But A Chin Of Gold",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15950": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15950,
"poem.id": 15950,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:01:35",
"poem.title": "Too Little Way The House Must Lie",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15951": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15951,
"poem.id": 15951,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:01:40",
"poem.title": "Nature Rarer Uses Yellow",
"poem.date": "5/15/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15952": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15952,
"poem.id": 15952,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:01:46",
"poem.title": "The Mystery Of Pain",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15953": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15953,
"poem.id": 15953,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:01:50",
"poem.title": "I'M Ceded—i'Ve Stopped Being Theirs",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15954": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15954,
"poem.id": 15954,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:01:54",
"poem.title": "There Is A Flower That Bees Prefer",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15955": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15955,
"poem.id": 15955,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:01:57",
"poem.title": "The Rainbow Never Tells Me",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15956": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15956,
"poem.id": 15956,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:02:00",
"poem.title": "How The Waters Closed Above Him",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15957": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15957,
"poem.id": 15957,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:02:07",
"poem.title": "I Felt My Life With Both My Hands",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15958": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15958,
"poem.id": 15958,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:02:11",
"poem.title": "They Shut Me Up In Prose",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15959": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15959,
"poem.id": 15959,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:02:15",
"poem.title": "I Reckon—when I Count It All",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15960": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15960,
"poem.id": 15960,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:02:20",
"poem.title": "I Stepped From Plank To Plank",
"poem.date": "5/15/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15961": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15961,
"poem.id": 15961,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:02:23",
"poem.title": "To Fill A Gap",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15962": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15962,
"poem.id": 15962,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:02:29",
"poem.title": "In Lands I Never Saw—they Say",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15963": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15963,
"poem.id": 15963,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:02:35",
"poem.title": "Upon Concluded Lives",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15964": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15964,
"poem.id": 15964,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:02:41",
"poem.title": "To Make One's Toilette&Mdash;After Death",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15965": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15965,
"poem.id": 15965,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:02:47",
"poem.title": "The Bible Is An Antique Volume",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15966": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15966,
"poem.id": 15966,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:02:54",
"poem.title": "I Tried To Think A Lonelier Thing",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15967": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15967,
"poem.id": 15967,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:02:59",
"poem.title": "Under The Light, Yet Under",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15968": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15968,
"poem.id": 15968,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:03:03",
"poem.title": "Me From Myself—to Banish",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15969": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15969,
"poem.id": 15969,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:03:08",
"poem.title": "This World Is Not Conclusion",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15970": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15970,
"poem.id": 15970,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:03:15",
"poem.title": "These Are The Days When Birds Come Back",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15971": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15971,
"poem.id": 15971,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:03:21",
"poem.title": "Life—is What We Make Of It",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15972": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15972,
"poem.id": 15972,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:03:24",
"poem.title": "This Quiet Dust Was Gentlemen And Ladies",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15973": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15973,
"poem.id": 15973,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:03:30",
"poem.title": "Unfulfilled To Observation",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15974": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15974,
"poem.id": 15974,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:03:36",
"poem.title": "To Offer Brave Assistance",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15975": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15975,
"poem.id": 15975,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:03:43",
"poem.title": "I'M The Little",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15976": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15976,
"poem.id": 15976,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:03:46",
"poem.title": "Impossibility, Like Wine",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15977": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15977,
"poem.id": 15977,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:03:51",
"poem.title": "Twice Had Summer Her Fair Verdure",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15978": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15978,
"poem.id": 15978,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:03:56",
"poem.title": "Going To Him! Happy Letter! Tell Him--",
"poem.date": "5/14/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15979": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15979,
"poem.id": 15979,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:04:00",
"poem.title": "There Is A Pain—so Utter",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15980": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15980,
"poem.id": 15980,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:04:03",
"poem.title": "Twas Crisis—all The Length Had Passed",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15981": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15981,
"poem.id": 15981,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:04:07",
"poem.title": "Why Do They Shut Me Out of Heaven?",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15982": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15982,
"poem.id": 15982,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:04:14",
"poem.title": "That Is Solemn We Have Ended",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15983": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15983,
"poem.id": 15983,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:04:16",
"poem.title": "The Heart Asks Pleasure First",
"poem.date": "5/15/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15984": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15984,
"poem.id": 15984,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:04:20",
"poem.title": "God Gave A Loaf To Every Bird,",
"poem.date": "12/31/2002",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15985": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15985,
"poem.id": 15985,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:04:25",
"poem.title": "If I Should Die",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15986": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15986,
"poem.id": 15986,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:04:28",
"poem.title": "Unto Me? I Do Not Know You—",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15987": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15987,
"poem.id": 15987,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:04:32",
"poem.title": "He Fumbles At Your Spirit",
"poem.date": "5/14/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15988": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15988,
"poem.id": 15988,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:04:36",
"poem.title": "Undue Significance A Starving Man Attaches",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15989": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15989,
"poem.id": 15989,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:04:42",
"poem.title": "The Admirations—and Contempts—of Time",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15990": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15990,
"poem.id": 15990,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:04:47",
"poem.title": "Snow Beneath Whose Chilly Softness",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15991": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15991,
"poem.id": 15991,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:04:50",
"poem.title": "With Thee, In The Desert",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15992": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15992,
"poem.id": 15992,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:04:54",
"poem.title": "It's All I Have To Bring Today",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15993": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15993,
"poem.id": 15993,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:04:58",
"poem.title": "He Fumbles At Your Soul",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15994": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15994,
"poem.id": 15994,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:05:04",
"poem.title": "Love Reckons By Itself—alone",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15995": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15995,
"poem.id": 15995,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:05:06",
"poem.title": "We Learned The Whole Of Love",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15996": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15996,
"poem.id": 15996,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:05:10",
"poem.title": "If I Could Bribe Them By A Rose",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15997": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15997,
"poem.id": 15997,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:05:14",
"poem.title": "Glee—the Great Storm Is Over",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15998": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15998,
"poem.id": 15998,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:05:20",
"poem.title": "Going To Heaven!",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"15999": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 15999,
"poem.id": 15999,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:05:27",
"poem.title": "Two Swimmers Wrestled On The Spar",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16000": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16000,
"poem.id": 16000,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:05:33",
"poem.title": "They Say That 'Time Assuages,",
"poem.date": "5/15/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16001": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16001,
"poem.id": 16001,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:05:36",
"poem.title": "That First Day, When You Praised Me, Sweet",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16002": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16002,
"poem.id": 16002,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:05:40",
"poem.title": "The Loneliness One Dare Not Sound",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16003": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16003,
"poem.id": 16003,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:05:46",
"poem.title": "Home",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16004": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16004,
"poem.id": 16004,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:05:49",
"poem.title": "'Twas A Long Parting&Mdash;But The Time",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16005": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16005,
"poem.id": 16005,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:05:53",
"poem.title": "We Dream—it Is Good We Are Dreaming",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16006": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16006,
"poem.id": 16006,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:05:58",
"poem.title": "The Angle Of A Landscape",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16007": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16007,
"poem.id": 16007,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:06:03",
"poem.title": "Wait Till The Majesty Of Death",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16008": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16008,
"poem.id": 16008,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:06:10",
"poem.title": "The Cricket Sang,",
"poem.date": "5/15/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16009": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16009,
"poem.id": 16009,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:06:14",
"poem.title": "To This World She Returned",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16010": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16010,
"poem.id": 16010,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:06:17",
"poem.title": "Unto My Books—so Good To Turn",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16011": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16011,
"poem.id": 16011,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:06:21",
"poem.title": "The Sky Is Low, The Clouds Are Mean,",
"poem.date": "5/15/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16012": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16012,
"poem.id": 16012,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:06:25",
"poem.title": "I Dreaded That First Robin, So",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16013": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16013,
"poem.id": 16013,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:06:32",
"poem.title": "I Should Not Dare To Leave My Friend",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16014": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16014,
"poem.id": 16014,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:06:34",
"poem.title": "To My Quick Ear The Leaves Conferred;",
"poem.date": "5/15/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16015": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16015,
"poem.id": 16015,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:06:40",
"poem.title": "My Life Had Stood",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16016": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16016,
"poem.id": 16016,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:06:43",
"poem.title": "You Know That Portrait In The Moon",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16017": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16017,
"poem.id": 16017,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:06:49",
"poem.title": "My Friend Must Be A Bird",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16018": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16018,
"poem.id": 16018,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:06:55",
"poem.title": "Within My Garden, Rides A Bird",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16019": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16019,
"poem.id": 16019,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:06:59",
"poem.title": "To Put This World Down, Like A Bundle",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16020": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16020,
"poem.id": 16020,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:07:04",
"poem.title": "To Venerate The Simple Days",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16021": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16021,
"poem.id": 16021,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:07:08",
"poem.title": "Two Travellers Perishing In Snow",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16022": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16022,
"poem.id": 16022,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:07:12",
"poem.title": "South Winds Jostle Them",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16023": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16023,
"poem.id": 16023,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:07:19",
"poem.title": "It Knew No Lapse, Nor Diminuation",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16024": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16024,
"poem.id": 16024,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:07:22",
"poem.title": "I Held A Jewel In My Fingers",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16025": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16025,
"poem.id": 16025,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:07:29",
"poem.title": "How Many Flowers Fail In Wood",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16026": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16026,
"poem.id": 16026,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:07:34",
"poem.title": "She Rose To His Requirement",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16027": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16027,
"poem.id": 16027,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:07:37",
"poem.title": "This Is My Letter To The World,",
"poem.date": "5/15/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16028": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16028,
"poem.id": 16028,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:07:42",
"poem.title": "To One Denied The Drink",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16029": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16029,
"poem.id": 16029,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:07:46",
"poem.title": "How Fortunate The Grave",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16030": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16030,
"poem.id": 16030,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:07:49",
"poem.title": "Inconceivably Solemn!",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16031": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16031,
"poem.id": 16031,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:07:55",
"poem.title": "To Lose One's Faith&Mdash;Surpass",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16032": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16032,
"poem.id": 16032,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:08:00",
"poem.title": "I Hide Myself Within My Flower",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16033": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16033,
"poem.id": 16033,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:08:04",
"poem.title": "Victory Comes Late",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16034": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16034,
"poem.id": 16034,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:08:09",
"poem.title": "To Lose Thee",
"poem.date": "11/21/2014",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16035": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16035,
"poem.id": 16035,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:08:12",
"poem.title": "'Twould Ease—a Butterfly",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16036": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16036,
"poem.id": 16036,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:08:18",
"poem.title": "One Sister Have I In Our House",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16037": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16037,
"poem.id": 16037,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:08:21",
"poem.title": "To Own The Art Within The Soul",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16038": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16038,
"poem.id": 16038,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:08:24",
"poem.title": "'Twas The Old—road—through Pain",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16039": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16039,
"poem.id": 16039,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:08:28",
"poem.title": "Good Morning—midnight",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16040": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16040,
"poem.id": 16040,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:08:33",
"poem.title": "Take Your Heaven Further On",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16041": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16041,
"poem.id": 16041,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:08:39",
"poem.title": "I Reason, Earth Is Short",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16042": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16042,
"poem.id": 16042,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:08:43",
"poem.title": "Triumph—may Be Of Several Kinds",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16046": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16046,
"poem.id": 16046,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:08:47",
"poem.title": "Is It Dead—find It",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16047": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16047,
"poem.id": 16047,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:08:52",
"poem.title": "Soul, Wilt Thou Toss Again?",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16049": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16049,
"poem.id": 16049,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:08:54",
"poem.title": "Talk With Prudence To A Beggar",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16050": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16050,
"poem.id": 16050,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:09:00",
"poem.title": "That Distance Was Between Us",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16051": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16051,
"poem.id": 16051,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:09:03",
"poem.title": "Escaping Backward To Perceive",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16052": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16052,
"poem.id": 16052,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:09:09",
"poem.title": "The Brain&Mdash;Is Wider Than The Sky",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16053": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16053,
"poem.id": 16053,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:09:13",
"poem.title": "It Was Too Late For Man",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16054": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16054,
"poem.id": 16054,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:09:16",
"poem.title": "Taking Up The Fair Ideal",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16055": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16055,
"poem.id": 16055,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:09:19",
"poem.title": "The Battle Fought Between The Soul",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16056": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16056,
"poem.id": 16056,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:09:24",
"poem.title": "To My Small Hearth His Fire Came",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16057": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16057,
"poem.id": 16057,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:09:29",
"poem.title": "Embarrassment Of One Another",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16058": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16058,
"poem.id": 16058,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:09:32",
"poem.title": "You Said That I",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16059": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16059,
"poem.id": 16059,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:09:38",
"poem.title": "To Love Thee Year By Year",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16060": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16060,
"poem.id": 16060,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:09:44",
"poem.title": "It Troubled Me As Once I Was",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16061": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16061,
"poem.id": 16061,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:09:50",
"poem.title": "Sown In Dishonor",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16062": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16062,
"poem.id": 16062,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:09:55",
"poem.title": "Sweet—you Forgot—but I Remembered",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16063": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16063,
"poem.id": 16063,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:09:58",
"poem.title": "Strong Draughts Of Their Refreshing Minds",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16064": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16064,
"poem.id": 16064,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:10:02",
"poem.title": "Give Little Anguish",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16066": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16066,
"poem.id": 16066,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:10:04",
"poem.title": "'Twas Just This Time, Last Year, I Died",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16067": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16067,
"poem.id": 16067,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:10:07",
"poem.title": "Is It True, Dear Sue?",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16068": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16068,
"poem.id": 16068,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:10:13",
"poem.title": "I Took My Power In My Hand",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16069": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16069,
"poem.id": 16069,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:10:18",
"poem.title": "Teach Him—when He Makes The Names",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16070": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16070,
"poem.id": 16070,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:10:23",
"poem.title": "In Winter In My Room",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16071": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16071,
"poem.id": 16071,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:10:27",
"poem.title": "Twas Such A Little—little Boat",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16072": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16072,
"poem.id": 16072,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:10:33",
"poem.title": "Dropped Into The Ether Acre",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16073": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16073,
"poem.id": 16073,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:10:40",
"poem.title": "Is Bliss Then, Such Abyss",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16074": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16074,
"poem.id": 16074,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:10:43",
"poem.title": "Trust In The Unexpected",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16075": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16075,
"poem.id": 16075,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:10:46",
"poem.title": "You Constituted Time",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16076": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16076,
"poem.id": 16076,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:10:48",
"poem.title": "That After Horror—that 'Twas Us",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16077": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16077,
"poem.id": 16077,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:10:54",
"poem.title": "From Us She Wandered Now A Year",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16078": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16078,
"poem.id": 16078,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:11:02",
"poem.title": "A Little Dog That Wags His Tail",
"poem.date": "1/6/2015",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16080": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16080,
"poem.id": 16080,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:11:09",
"poem.title": "It Dropped So Low In My Regard",
"poem.date": "5/15/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16081": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16081,
"poem.id": 16081,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:11:12",
"poem.title": "Such Is The Force Of Happiness",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16082": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16082,
"poem.id": 16082,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:11:16",
"poem.title": "'Twas Love—not Me",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16084": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16084,
"poem.id": 16084,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:11:19",
"poem.title": "Soto! Explore Thyself!",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16085": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16085,
"poem.id": 16085,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:11:30",
"poem.title": "Some, Too Fragile For Winter Winds",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16088": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16088,
"poem.id": 16088,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:11:32",
"poem.title": "You Love The Lord—you Cannot See",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16089": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16089,
"poem.id": 16089,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:11:37",
"poem.title": "'Twas Like A Maelstrom, With A Notch",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16090": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16090,
"poem.id": 16090,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:11:43",
"poem.title": "Sweet, To Have Had Them Lost",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16092": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16092,
"poem.id": 16092,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:11:45",
"poem.title": "Exhilaration—is Within",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16093": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16093,
"poem.id": 16093,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:11:50",
"poem.title": "It Knew No Medicine",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16094": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16094,
"poem.id": 16094,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:11:56",
"poem.title": "For Largest Woman's Hearth I Knew",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16095": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16095,
"poem.id": 16095,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:12:02",
"poem.title": "One Year Ago—jots What?",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16096": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16096,
"poem.id": 16096,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:12:09",
"poem.title": "We Play At Paste,",
"poem.date": "12/31/2002",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16097": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16097,
"poem.id": 16097,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:12:15",
"poem.title": "It Is A Lonesome Glee",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16098": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16098,
"poem.id": 16098,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:12:21",
"poem.title": "She Dealt Her Pretty Words Like Blades",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16101": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16101,
"poem.id": 16101,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:12:26",
"poem.title": "I Many Times Thought Peace Had Come",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16102": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16102,
"poem.id": 16102,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:12:32",
"poem.title": "You Love Me—you Are Sure",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16103": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16103,
"poem.id": 16103,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:12:38",
"poem.title": "Fame Of Myself, To Justify",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16104": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16104,
"poem.id": 16104,
"poem.ts": "2018-02-28 20:25:16",
"poem.title": "It Don'T Sound So Terrible—quite—as It Did",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": ""
},
"16105": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16105,
"poem.id": 16105,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:13:22",
"poem.title": "Drab Habitation Of Whom?",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16106": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16106,
"poem.id": 16106,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:13:25",
"poem.title": "Forget! The Lady With The Amulet",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16107": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16107,
"poem.id": 16107,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:13:31",
"poem.title": "It Was A Grave, Yet Bore No Stone",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16108": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16108,
"poem.id": 16108,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:13:36",
"poem.title": "Garland For Queens, May Be",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16109": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16109,
"poem.id": 16109,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:13:39",
"poem.title": "By Such And Such An Offering",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16110": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16110,
"poem.id": 16110,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:13:44",
"poem.title": "Conjecturing A Climate",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16111": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16111,
"poem.id": 16111,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:13:46",
"poem.title": "Frequently The Wood Are Pink",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16112": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16112,
"poem.id": 16112,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:13:53",
"poem.title": "Finite—to Fail, But Infinite To Venture",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16113": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16113,
"poem.id": 16113,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:13:57",
"poem.title": "It Bloomed And Dropt, A Single Noon",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16114": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16114,
"poem.id": 16114,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:14:02",
"poem.title": "By Chivalries As Tiny",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16115": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16115,
"poem.id": 16115,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:14:05",
"poem.title": "'Twas Warm—at First—like Us",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16116": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16116,
"poem.id": 16116,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:14:08",
"poem.title": "How Far Is It To Heaven?",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16117": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16117,
"poem.id": 16117,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:14:11",
"poem.title": "Sweet&Mdash;Safe&Mdash;Houses",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16119": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16119,
"poem.id": 16119,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:14:18",
"poem.title": "It Is Easy To Work When The Soul Is At Play",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16120": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16120,
"poem.id": 16120,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:14:24",
"poem.title": "Dying! To Be Afraid Of Thee",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16121": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16121,
"poem.id": 16121,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:14:28",
"poem.title": "It Tossed—and Tossed",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16122": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16122,
"poem.id": 16122,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:14:34",
"poem.title": "Conscious Am I In My Chamber",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16124": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16124,
"poem.id": 16124,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:14:40",
"poem.title": "Have You Got A Brook In Your Little Heart",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16125": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16125,
"poem.id": 16125,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:14:43",
"poem.title": "It Struck Me Every Day",
"poem.date": "5/15/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16131": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16131,
"poem.id": 16131,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:14:49",
"poem.title": "Doubt Me! My Dim Companion!",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16132": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16132,
"poem.id": 16132,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:14:52",
"poem.title": "Spring Is The Period",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16133": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16133,
"poem.id": 16133,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:14:59",
"poem.title": "Deprived Of Other Banquet",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16134": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16134,
"poem.id": 16134,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:15:02",
"poem.title": "Expectation—is Contentment",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16135": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16135,
"poem.id": 16135,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:15:06",
"poem.title": "You See I Cannot See—your Lifetime",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16136": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16136,
"poem.id": 16136,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:15:08",
"poem.title": "Two Butterflies Went Out At Noon",
"poem.date": "5/15/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16137": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16137,
"poem.id": 16137,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:15:11",
"poem.title": "Except The Heaven Had Come So Near",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16138": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16138,
"poem.id": 16138,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:15:17",
"poem.title": "Fairer Through Fading—as The Day",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16139": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16139,
"poem.id": 16139,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:15:20",
"poem.title": "It Makes No Difference Abroad",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16140": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16140,
"poem.id": 16140,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:15:24",
"poem.title": "Suspense—is Hostiler Than Death",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16141": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16141,
"poem.id": 16141,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:15:26",
"poem.title": "Experience Is The Angled Road",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16142": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16142,
"poem.id": 16142,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:15:30",
"poem.title": "Snow Flakes",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16143": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16143,
"poem.id": 16143,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:15:32",
"poem.title": "Distrustful Of The Gentian",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16144": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16144,
"poem.id": 16144,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:15:39",
"poem.title": "It Was Not Death, For I Stood Up,",
"poem.date": "5/15/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16145": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16145,
"poem.id": 16145,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:15:46",
"poem.title": "Artists Wrestled Here!",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16146": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16146,
"poem.id": 16146,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:15:48",
"poem.title": "For This—accepted Breath",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16147": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16147,
"poem.id": 16147,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:15:54",
"poem.title": "Dust Is The Only Secret",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16148": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16148,
"poem.id": 16148,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:16:00",
"poem.title": "The Railway Train",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16149": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16149,
"poem.id": 16149,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:16:04",
"poem.title": "Nobody Knows This Little Rose",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16150": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16150,
"poem.id": 16150,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:16:06",
"poem.title": "Could I—then—shut The Door",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16151": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16151,
"poem.id": 16151,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:16:11",
"poem.title": "Could—i Do More—for Thee",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16152": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16152,
"poem.id": 16152,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:16:13",
"poem.title": "Truth—is As Old As God",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16153": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16153,
"poem.id": 16153,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:16:17",
"poem.title": "The Brain Within It's Groove",
"poem.date": "12/31/2002",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16154": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16154,
"poem.id": 16154,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:16:23",
"poem.title": "The Bustle In A House",
"poem.date": "12/31/2002",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16155": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16155,
"poem.id": 16155,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:16:27",
"poem.title": "Did You Ever Stand In A Cavern's Mouth",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16156": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16156,
"poem.id": 16156,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:16:34",
"poem.title": "As Children Bid The Guest \"Good Night\"",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16157": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16157,
"poem.id": 16157,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:16:40",
"poem.title": "Forever At His Side To Walk",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16158": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16158,
"poem.id": 16158,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:16:46",
"poem.title": "By My Window Have I For Scenery",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16159": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16159,
"poem.id": 16159,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:16:53",
"poem.title": "Forever—it Composed Of Nows",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16160": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16160,
"poem.id": 16160,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:16:56",
"poem.title": "A Great Hope Fell",
"poem.date": "12/6/2014",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16161": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16161,
"poem.id": 16161,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:17:00",
"poem.title": "Did The Harebell Loose Her Girdle",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16162": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16162,
"poem.id": 16162,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:17:05",
"poem.title": "I Like To See It Lap The Miles,",
"poem.date": "5/15/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16163": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16163,
"poem.id": 16163,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:17:10",
"poem.title": "Between My Country—and The Others",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16165": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16165,
"poem.id": 16165,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:17:14",
"poem.title": "It Is An Honorable Thought,",
"poem.date": "5/15/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16166": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16166,
"poem.id": 16166,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:17:20",
"poem.title": "Best Things Dwell Out Of Sight",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16167": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16167,
"poem.id": 16167,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:17:24",
"poem.title": "Color—caste—denomination",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16168": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16168,
"poem.id": 16168,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:17:27",
"poem.title": "Each Scar I'Ll Keep For Him",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16169": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16169,
"poem.id": 16169,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:17:33",
"poem.title": "Drama's Vitallest Expression Is The Common Day",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16171": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16171,
"poem.id": 16171,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:17:37",
"poem.title": "As Frost Is Best Conceived",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16172": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16172,
"poem.id": 16172,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:17:42",
"poem.title": "Banish Air From Air&Mdash;",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16174": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16174,
"poem.id": 16174,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:17:45",
"poem.title": "Superfluous Were The Sun",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16175": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16175,
"poem.id": 16175,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:17:49",
"poem.title": "The Bee Is Not Afraid Of Me",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16176": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16176,
"poem.id": 16176,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:17:53",
"poem.title": "Elysium Is As Far As To",
"poem.date": "5/14/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16177": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16177,
"poem.id": 16177,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:17:59",
"poem.title": "Could I But Ride Indefinite",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16178": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16178,
"poem.id": 16178,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:18:06",
"poem.title": "Heart, We Will Forget Him",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16179": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16179,
"poem.id": 16179,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:18:10",
"poem.title": "It Can'T Be \"Summer\"!",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16180": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16180,
"poem.id": 16180,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:18:16",
"poem.title": "Fitter To See Him, I May Be",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16181": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16181,
"poem.id": 16181,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:18:18",
"poem.title": "Train",
"poem.date": "1/3/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16182": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16182,
"poem.id": 16182,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:18:24",
"poem.title": "As Watchers Hang Upon The East",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16183": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16183,
"poem.id": 16183,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:18:31",
"poem.title": "All Circumstances Are The Frame",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16184": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16184,
"poem.id": 16184,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:18:34",
"poem.title": "To Wait An Hour—is Long",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16185": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16185,
"poem.id": 16185,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:18:40",
"poem.title": "Delayed Till She Had Ceased To Know",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16187": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16187,
"poem.id": 16187,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:18:43",
"poem.title": "You'Ll Know Her—by Her Foot",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16188": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16188,
"poem.id": 16188,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:18:48",
"poem.title": "If You Were Coming In The Fall,",
"poem.date": "5/15/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16190": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16190,
"poem.id": 16190,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:18:53",
"poem.title": "Endow The Living—with The Tears",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16191": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16191,
"poem.id": 16191,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:18:58",
"poem.title": "As If I Asked A Common Alms",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16192": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16192,
"poem.id": 16192,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:19:06",
"poem.title": "You'Ll Find—it When You Try To Die",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16194": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16194,
"poem.id": 16194,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:19:11",
"poem.title": "Besides This May",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16195": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16195,
"poem.id": 16195,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:19:15",
"poem.title": "Why Do I Love You, Sir?",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16197": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16197,
"poem.id": 16197,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:19:22",
"poem.title": "Delight Becomes Pictorial",
"poem.date": "5/14/2001",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16199": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16199,
"poem.id": 16199,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:19:24",
"poem.title": "Houses—so The Wise Men Tell Me—",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16200": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16200,
"poem.id": 16200,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:19:27",
"poem.title": "Empty My Heart, Of Thee",
"poem.date": "1/13/2003",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16202": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16202,
"poem.id": 16202,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:19:30",
"poem.title": "Bloom Upon The Mountain—stated",
"poem.date": "1/1/2004",
"poem.content": "",
"poem.author": "Emily Dickinson"
},
"16204": {
"poet_x_poem.id": 16204,
"poem.id": 16204,
"poem.ts": "2018-03-02 03:19:3 |