Elizabeth Bishop

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

Elizabeth Bishop Poems

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

Little Exercise

For Thomas Edwards Wanning


Think of the storm roaming the sky uneasily
like a dog looking for a place to sleep in,
listen to it growling.

Think how they must look now, the mangrove keys
lying out there unresponsive to the lightning

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