#Americans #PulitzerPrize #XIXCentury #XXCentury #1928 #WestRunningBrook
The little old house was out with… In front at the edge of the road w… A roadside stand that too pathetic… It would not be fair to say for a… But for some of the money, the cas…
The white-tailed hornet lives in a… That floats against the ceiling of… The exit he comes out at like a bu… Is like the pupil of a pointed gun… And having power to change his aim…
Some one in ancient Mas d’Azil Once took a little pebble wheel And dotted it with red for me, And sent it to me years and years— A million years to be precise—
Snow falling and night falling fas… In a field I looked into going pa… And the ground almost covered smoo… But a few weeds and stubble showin… The woods around it have it—it is…
The danger not an inch outside Behind the porthole’s slab of glas… And double ring of fitted brass I trust feels properly defied.
By June our brook’s run out of so… Sought for much after that, it wil… Either to have gone groping underg… (And taken with it all the Hyla b… That shouted in the mist a month a…
The last step taken found your hef… Decidedly upon the left. One more would throw you on the ri… Another still—you see your plight. You call this thinking, but it’s w…
Seek not in me the big I capital, Not yet the little dotted in me se… If I have in me any I at all, 'Tis the iota subscript of the Gr… So small am I as an attention beg…
The sentencing goes blithely on it… And takes the playfully objected r… As surely as it takes the stroke a… In having its undeviable say.
Never have I been glad or sad That there was such a thing as bad… There had to be, I understood, For there to have been any good. It was by having been contrasted
I came an errand one cloud-blowing… To a slab-built, black-paper-cover… Of one room and one window and one… The only dwelling in a waste cut o… A hundred square miles round it in…
It was too lonely for her there, And too wild, And since there were but two of th… And no child, And work was little in the house,
The line—storm clouds fly tattered… The road is forlorn all day, Where a myriad snowy quartz stones… And the hoof—prints vanish away. The roadside flowers, too wet for…
A dented spider like a snow drop w… On a white Heal-all, holding up a… Like a white piece of lifeless sat… Saw ever curious eye so strange a… Portent in little, assorted death…
The well was dry beside the door, And so we went with pail and can Across the fields behind the house To seek the brook if still it ran; Not loth to have excuse to go,
