Elizabeth Bishop

(8 February 1911 – 6 October 1979 / Worcester, Massachusetts)

Elizabeth Bishop Poems

1. Faustina, or Rock Roses 4/24/2015
2. Suicide Of A Moderate Dictator 2/7/2012
3. Intimate, Low-Voiced, Delicate Things 11/13/2013
4. Manuelzinho 1/1/2004
5. Squatter's Children 1/3/2003
6. Sonnet (1979) 1/13/2003
7. Strayed Crab 1/3/2003
8. Little Exercise 1/13/2003
9. Songs For A Colored Singer 1/3/2003
10. Roosters 1/3/2003
11. Visits To St Elizabeths 1/3/2003
12. Sonnet (1928) 1/13/2003
13. Giant Snail 1/13/2003
14. View Of The Capitol From The Library Of Congress 1/3/2003
15. Song For The Rainy Season 1/3/2003
16. North Haven 1/3/2003
17. Trouvée 1/3/2003
18. Lines Written In The Fannie Farmer Cookbook 1/13/2003
19. Sonnet 1/3/2003
20. Large Bad Picture 1/3/2003
21. O Breath 1/3/2003
22. The Imaginary Iceberg 1/13/2003
23. The Monument 1/3/2003
24. Sleeping On The Ceiling 1/3/2003
25. The Burglar Of Babylon 1/13/2003
26. To Be Written On The Mirror In Whitewash 1/3/2003
27. The Man-Moth 1/3/2003
28. Rain Towards Morning 1/3/2003
29. The Colder The Air 1/13/2003
30. The Bight 1/3/2003
31. While Someone Telephones 1/3/2003
32. Poem 1/3/2003
33. The Armadillo 1/3/2003
34. The Weed 1/3/2003
35. The Unbeliever 1/3/2003
36. Seascape 1/3/2003
37. Giant Toad 1/13/2003
38. Lullaby For The Cat 1/3/2003
39. The Shampoo 1/3/2003
40. Cirque D'Hiver 1/13/2003
Best Poem of Elizabeth Bishop

One Art

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster,

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ...

Read the full of One Art

Questions Of Travel

There are too many waterfalls here; the crowded streams
hurry too rapidly down to the sea,
and the pressure of so many clouds on the mountaintops
makes them spill over the sides in soft slow-motion,
turning to waterfalls under our very eyes.
--For if those streaks, those mile-long, shiny, tearstains,
aren't waterfalls yet,
in a quick age or so, as ages go here,
they probably will be.

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