Trouve
Elizabeth Bishop
Oh, why should a hen have been run over on West 4th Street in the middle of summer? She was a white hen --red-and-white now, of course. How did she get there? Where was she going? Her wing feathers spread flat, flat in the tar, all dirtied, and thin as tissue paper. A pigeon, yes, or an English sparrow, might meet such a fate, but not that poor fowl. Just now I went back to look again. I hadn't dreamed it: there is a hen turned into a quaint old country saying scribbled in chalk (except for the beak).
Next 10 Poems
- Elizabeth Bishop : View Of The Capitol From The Library Of Congress
- Elizabeth Bishop : Visits To St. Elizabeths
- Elizabeth Bishop : While Someone Telephones
- William Blake : A Cradle Song
- William Blake : A Divine Image
- William Blake : A Dream
- William Blake : A Little Boy Lost
- William Blake : A Little Girl Lost
- William Blake : A Poison Tree
- William Blake : A Song
Previous 10 Poems
- Elizabeth Bishop : To Be Written On The Mirror In Whitewash
- Elizabeth Bishop : The Weed
- Elizabeth Bishop : The Unbeliever
- Elizabeth Bishop : The Shampoo
- Elizabeth Bishop : The Moose
- Elizabeth Bishop : The Monument
- Elizabeth Bishop : The Map
- Elizabeth Bishop : The Man-moth
- Elizabeth Bishop : The Imaginary Iceberg
- Elizabeth Bishop : The Fish