Poems by Elizabeth Bishop

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At six o'clock we were waiting for coffee,
The brown enormous odor he lived by
In memory of Marjorie Carr Stevens
Days that cannot bring you near
Here is a coast; here is a harbor;
Although it is a cold evening,
Out on the high "bird islands," Ciboux and Hertford,
Love's the boy stood on the burning deck
Alone on the railroad track
Across the floor flits the mechanical toy,
The tumult in the heart
Unfunny uncles who insist
Oh, but it is dirty!
In the cold, cold parlor
Still dark.
The state with the prettiest name,
The rain has stopped. The waterfall will roar like that all
I am too big. Too big by far. Pity me.
In Worcester, Massachusetts,
The moon in the bureau mirror
From Brooklyn, over the Brooklyn Bridge, on this fine morning,
Remembering the Strait of Belle Isle or
For Louise Crane
[Given to Frank Bidart]
For Thomas Edwards Wanning
Earliest morning, switching all the tracks
Minnow, go to sleep and dream,
For a Child of 1918
[Brazil. A friend of the writer is speaking.]
In Memoriam: Robert Lowell
Beneath that loved and celebrated breast,
The art of losing isn't hard to master;
About the size of an old-style dollar bill,
There are too many waterfalls here; the crowded streams
The great light cage has broken up in the air,
At four o'clock
The roaring alongside he takes for granted,
This celestial seascape, with white herons got up as angels,
September rain falls on the house.
It is so peaceful on the ceiling!
Hidden, oh hidden
I am in need of music that would flow
Caught -- the bubble
On the unbreathing sides of hills
This is not my home. How did I get so far from water? It must
For Robert Lowell
[On my birthday]
On the fair green hills of Rio
We must admire her perfect aim,
For John Malcolm Brinnin and Bill Read: Duxbury
I caught a tremendous fish
We'd rather have the iceberg than the ship,
Man-Moth: Newspaper misprint for "mammoth."
Land lies in water; it is shadowed green.
Now can you see the monument? It is of wood
For Grace Bulmer Bowers
The still explosions on the rocks,
He sleeps on the top of a mast. - Bunyan
I dreamed that dead, and meditating,
I live only here, between your eyes and you,
Oh, why should a hen
Moving from left to left, the light
This is the house of Bedlam.
Wasted, wasted minutes that couldn't be worse,