Elizabeth Bishop

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

Elizabeth Bishop Poems

1. While Someone Telephones 1/3/2003
2. Visits To St Elizabeths 1/3/2003
3. View Of The Capitol From The Library Of Congress 1/3/2003
4. Trouvée 1/3/2003
5. To Be Written On The Mirror In Whitewash 1/3/2003
6. The Weed 1/3/2003
7. The Unbeliever 1/3/2003
8. The Shampoo 1/3/2003
9. The Moose 1/3/2003
10. The Monument 1/3/2003
11. The Map 1/3/2003
12. The Man-Moth 1/3/2003
13. The Imaginary Iceberg 1/13/2003
14. The Fish 1/3/2003
15. The End Of March 1/13/2003
16. The Colder The Air 1/13/2003
17. The Burglar Of Babylon 1/13/2003
18. The Bight 1/3/2003
19. The Armadillo 1/3/2003
20. Suicide Of A Moderate Dictator 2/7/2012
21. Strayed Crab 1/3/2003
22. Squatter's Children 1/3/2003
23. Sonnet (1979) 1/13/2003
24. Sonnet (1928) 1/13/2003
25. Sonnet 1/3/2003
26. Songs For A Colored Singer 1/3/2003
27. Song For The Rainy Season 1/3/2003
28. Sleeping On The Ceiling 1/3/2003
29. Sestina 1/3/2003
30. Seascape 1/3/2003
31. Sandpiper 1/3/2003
32. Roosters 1/3/2003
33. Rain Towards Morning 1/3/2003
34. Questions Of Travel 1/3/2003
35. Poem 1/3/2003
36. One Art 1/3/2003
37. O Breath 1/3/2003
38. North Haven 1/3/2003
39. Manuelzinho 1/1/2004
40. Manners 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

Strayed Crab

This is not my home. How did I get so far from water? It must
be over that way somewhere.
I am the color of wine, of tinta. The inside of my powerful
right claw is saffron-yellow. See, I see it now; I wave it like a
flag. I am dapper and elegant; I move with great precision,
cleverly managing all my smaller yellow claws. I believe in the
oblique, the indirect approach, and I keep my feelings to myself.
But on this strange, smooth surface I am making too much
noise. I wasn't meant

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