#1942 #AmericanWriters #AWitnessTree #PulitzerPrize
He thought he kept the universe al… For all the voice in answer he cou… Was but the mocking echo of his ow… From some tree-hidden cliff across… Some morning from the boulder-brok…
I’m going out to clean the pasture… I’ll only stop to rake the leaves… (And wait to watch the water clear… I sha’n’t be gone long.—You come… I’m going out to fetch the little…
The rose is a rose, And was always a rose. But the theory now goes That the apple’s a rose, And the pear is, and so’s
Four or five whippoorwills Have come down from their native l… To the open country edge To give us a piece of their bills. Two in June were a pair—
I have been one acquainted with th… I have walked out in rain—and back… I have outwalked the furthest city… I have looked down the saddest cit… I have passed by the watchman on h…
The surest thing there is is we ar… And though none too successful at… Through everything presented, land… And now the very air, of what we r… What is this talked-of mystery of…
Tree at my window, window tree, My sash is lowered when night come… But let there never be curtain dra… Between you and me. Vague dream-head lifted out of the…
Something I saw or thought I saw In the desert at midnight in Utah… Looking out of my lower berth At moonlit sky and moonlit earth. The sky had here and there a star;
Spades take up leaves No better than spoons, And bags full of leaves Are light as balloons. I make a great noise
This saying good-bye on the edge o… And cold to an orchard so young in… Reminds me of all that can happen… An orchard away at the end of the… All winter, cut off by a hill from…
For every parcel I stoop down to… I lose some other off my arms and… And the whole pile is slipping, bo… Extremes too hard to comprehend at… Yet nothing I should care to leav…
The clouds, the source of rain, on… Offered an opening to the source o… Which I accepted with impatient s… Looking for my old skymarks in the… But stars were scarce in that part…
Over back where they speak of life… ('You couldn’t call it living, for… There was an old, old house renewe… And in it a piano loudly playing. Out in the plowed ground in the co…
In a Vermont bedroom closet With a door of two broad boards And for back wall a crumbling old… (And that’s what their toes are to… I have a pair of shoes standing,
As gay for you to take your father… As take his gun—rod—to go hunting—… You nick my spruce until its fiber… It gives up standing straight and… You link an arm in its arm and you…