Poetry

Oklahoma By  Ernest Hemingway All of the Indians are dead (a good Indian is a dead Indian) Or riding in motor cars —  (the oil lands, you know, they’…

Mitraigliatrice By  Ernest Hemingway The mills of the gods grind slowly; But this mill Chatters in mechanical staccato. Ugly short infantry of the mi…

Captives By  Ernest Hemingway Some came in chains Unrepentent but tired. Too tired but to stumble. Thinking and hating were finished Thinking and fig…

Roosevelt By  Ernest Hemingway Workingmen believed He busted trusts, And put his picture in their windows. “What he’d have done in France!” They said…