The Campus On The Hill By William De Witt Snodgrass

The Campus On The Hill Up the reputable walks of old established trees They stalk, children of the nouveaux riches; chimes Of the tall Clock…

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Nightwatchman’s Song By William De Witt Snodgrass

Nightwatchman’s Song After Heinrich I. F. Biber I What’s unseen may not exist— Or so those secret powers insist That prowl past nightfall, Enabled by…

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Vuillard – The Mother And Sister Of The Artist By William De Witt Snodgrass

Vuillard – the Mother And Sister Of The Artist (Instructions for the Visit) Admire, when you come here, the glimmering hair Of the girl; praise…

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Magda Goebbels (30 April 1945) By William De Witt Snodgrass

Magda Goebbels (30 April 1945) (After Dr. Haase gave them shots of morphine, Magda gave each child an ampule of potassium cyanide from a spoon.)…

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Sitting Outside By William De Witt Snodgrass

Sitting Outside These lawn chairs and the chaise lounge of bulky redwood were purchased for my father twenty years ago, then plumped down in the…

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April Inventory By William De Witt Snodgrass

April Inventory The green catalpa tree has turned All white; the cherry blooms once more. In one whole year I haven’t learned A blessed thing…

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Who Steals My Good Name By William De Witt Snodgrass

Who Steals My Good Name For the person who obtained my debit card number and spent $11,000 in five days My pale stepdaughter, just off…

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After Experience Taught Me … By William De Witt Snodgrass

After Experience Taught Me … After experience taught me that all the ordinary Surroundings of social life are futile and vain; I’m going to show…

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Song By William De Witt Snodgrass

Song Observe the cautious toadstools still on the lawn today though they grow over-evening; sun shrinks them away. Pale and proper and rootless, they righteously…

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A Locked House By William De Witt Snodgrass

A Locked House As we drove back, crossing the hill, The house still Hidden in the trees, I always thought— A fool’s fear—that it might…

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The Poet Ridiculed By Hysterical Academics By William De Witt Snodgrass

The Poet Ridiculed By Hysterical Academics Is it, then, your opinion Women are putty in your hands? Is this the face to launch upon A…

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Heart’s Needle By William De Witt Snodgrass

Heart’s Needle 1 Child of my winter, born When the new fallen soldiers froze In Asia’s steep ravines and fouled the snows, When I was…

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Reichsmarschall Hermann Göring (1 April 1945) By William De Witt Snodgrass

Reichsmarschall Hermann Göring (1 April 1945) (Göring, head of the Luftwaffe, once bragged that if one German city were bombed, they could call him “Meier.”…

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Mementos, 1 By William De Witt Snodgrass

Mementos, 1 Sorting out letters and piles of my old Canceled checks, old clippings, and yellow note cards That meant something once, I happened to…

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Monet- Les Nymphéas By William De Witt Snodgrass

Monet- les Nymphéas The eyelids glowing, some chill morning. O world half-known through opening, twilit lids Before the vague face clenches into light; O universal…

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Pacemaker By William De Witt Snodgrass

Pacemaker I ‘One Snodgrass, two Snodgrass, three Snodgrass, four . . . I took my own rollcall when I counted seconds; ‘One two three, Two…

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Matisse- ‘the Red Studio’ By William De Witt Snodgrass

Matisse- ‘The Red Studio’ There is no one here. But the objects: they are real. It is not As if he had stepped out or…

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