#Americans #PulitzerPrice #XIXCentury #XXCentury
PAPA JOFFRE, the shoulders of him wide as the land of France. We look on the shoulders filling the stage of the Chicago Auditorium. A fat mayor has spoken much English and the mud o...
MRS. GABRIELLE GIOVANNI… every morning at nine o’clock With kindling wood piled on top of… looking straight ahead to find the… Her daughter-in-law, Mrs. Pietro…
Maybe he believes me, maybe not. Maybe I can marry him, maybe not. Maybe the wind on the prairie, The wind on the sea, maybe, Somebody, somewhere, maybe can tel…
UNDER the harvest moon, When the soft silver Drips shimmering Over the garden nights, Death, the gray mocker,
There is a blue star, Janet, Fifteen years’ ride from us, If we ride a hundred miles an hour… There is a white star, Janet, Forty years’ ride from us,
A MILLION young workmen straight and strong lay stiff on the grass and roads, And the million are now under soil and their rottening flesh will in the years feed roots of blood-red ro...
BETWEEN two hills The old town stands. The houses loom And the roofs and trees And the dusk and the dark,
THE single clenched fist lifted a… Or the open asking hand held out a… Choose: For we meet by one or the other.
SMASH down the cities. Knock the walls to pieces. Break the factories and cathedrals… and homes Into loose piles of stone and lumb…
THREE violins are trying their h… The piece is MacDowell’s Wild Ro… And the time of the wild rose And the leaves of the wild rose And the dew-shot eyes of the wild…
HIGH noon. White sun flashes on… asphalt. Drum of hoofs and whirr o… Women trapsing along in flimsy clo… play of sun-fire to their skin and… Inside the playhouse are movies fr…
I REMEMBER the Chillicothe ba… And the shoulders of the Chillico… And the umpire’s voice was hoarse…
or a man out of the ashes of false dawn muttering 'hot-dog’ to the night watchmen: Is there a spieler who has spoken the word or taken the number of night’s nothings? am I the spieler? ...
And so to-day—they lay him away— the boy nobody knows the name of– the buck private—the unknown soldi… the doughboy who dug under and die… when they told him to– that’s him.
MY people are gray, pigeon gray, dawn gray, storm gray… I call them beautiful, and I wonder where they are going.