#1936 #AFurtherRange #AmericanWriters #PulitzerPrize
There’s a place called Far-away M… We never shall mow in again, Or such is the talk at the farmhou… The meadow is finished with men. Then now is the chance for the flo…
To think to know the country and n… The hillside on the day the sun le… Ten million silver lizards out of… As often as I’ve seen it done bef… I can’t pretend to tell the way it…
All crying, ‘We will go with you,… The foliage follow him, leaf and s… But a sleep oppresses them as they… And they end by bidding them as th… And they end by bidding him stay w…
My long two-pointed ladder’s stick… Toward heaven still. And there’s a barrel that I didn’… Beside it, and there may be two or… Apples I didn’t pick upon some bo…
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…
When I spread out my hand here to… I catch no more than a ray To feel of between thumb and finge… No lasting effect of it lingers. There was one time and only the on…
The shattered water made a misty d… Great waves looked over others com… And thought of doing something to… That water never did to land befor… The clouds were low and hairy in t…
He is said to have been the last… In Action. And the Miller is sai… If you like to call such a sound a… But he gave no one else a laugher’… For he turned suddenly grave as if…
Oh, stormy stormy world, The days you were not swirled Around with mist and cloud, Or wrapped as in a shroud, And the sun’s brilliant ball
That far-off day the leaves in fli… Were letting in the colder light. A season-ending wind there blew That as it did the forest strew I leaned on with a singing trust
God made a beatous garden With lovely flowers strown, But one straight, narrow pathway That was not overgrown. And to this beauteous garden
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—
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…
An ant on the tablecloth Ran into a dormant moth Of many times his size. He showed not the least surprise. His business wasn’t with such.
Nature’s first green is gold, Her hardest hue to hold. Her early leaf’s a flower; But only so an hour. Then leaf subsides to leaf.