#1942 #AmericanWriters #AWitnessTree #PulitzerPrize
The mountain held the town as in a… I saw so much before I slept ther… I noticed that I missed stars in… Where its black body cut into the… Near me it seemed: I felt it like…
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…
BROWN lived at such a lofty farm That everyone for miles could see His lantern when he did his chores In winter after half-past three. And many must have seen him make
As vain to raise a voice as a sigh In the tumult of free leaves on hi… What are you in the shadow of tree… Engaged up there with the light an… Less than the coral-root you know
Some of you will be glad I did wh… And the rest won’t want to punish… For finding a thing to do that tho… Yet wasn’t enjoined and wasn’t exp… To punish me over cruelly wouldn’t…
We dance round in a ring and suppo… But the Secret sits in the middle…
To Time it never seems that he is… To set himself against the peaks o… To lay them level with the running… Nor is he overjoyed when they lie… But only grave, contemplative and…
“OH, let’s go up the hill and sca… As reckless as the best of them to… By setting fire to all the brush w… With pitchy hands to wait for rain… Oh, let’s not wait for rain to mak…
(To hear us talk) The tree the tempest with a crash… Throws down in front of us is not… Our passage to our journey’s end f… But just to ask us who we think we…
Before man to blow to right The wind once blew itself untaught… And did its loudest day and night In any rough place where it caught… Man came to tell it what was wrong…
He has dust in his eyes and a fan… A leg akimbo with which he can sin… And a mouthful of dye stuff instea…
The farm house lingers, though ave… With the new city street it has to… But what about the brook That held the house as in an elbow… I ask as one who knew the brook, i…
Will the blight end the chestnut? The farmers rather guess not. It keeps smouldering at the roots And sending up new shoots Till another parasite
Come with rain, O loud Southweste… Bring the singer, bring the nester… Give the buried flower a dream; Make the settled snow—bank steam; Find the brown beneath the white;
Lancaster bore him—such a little t… Such a great man. It doesn’t see… Of late years, though he keeps the… And sends the children down there… To run wild in the summer—a little…