#1936 #AFurtherRange #AmericanWriters #PulitzerPrize
I never dared be radical when youn… For fear it would make me conserva…
As far as I can see this autumn h… That spreading in the evening air… Makes the new moon look anything b… And pours the elm-tree meadow full… Is all the smoke from one poor hou…
We make ourselves a place apart Behind light words that tease and… But oh, the agitated heart Till someone find us really out. ’Tis pity if the case require
Thine emulous fond flowers are dea… And the daft sun—assaulter, he That frighted thee so oft, is fled… Save only me (Nor is it sad to thee!)
No, I had set no prohibiting sign… And yes, my land was hardly fenced… Nevertheless the land was mine: I was being trespassed on and agai… Whoever the surly freedom took
Abstraction is an old story with the philosophers, but it has been like a new toy in the hands of the artists of our day. Why can’t we have any one quality of poetry we choose by itself...
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 was just as far as I coul… From here today, There was an hour All still When leaning with my head against…
When the spent sun throws up its r… And goes down burning into the gul… No voice in nature is heard to cry… At what has happened. Birds, at l… It is the change to darkness in th…
Love and forgetting might have car… A little further up the mountain s… With night so near, but not much f… They must have halted soon in any… With thoughts of a path back, how…
Why make so much of fragmentary bl… In here and there a bird, or butte… Or flower, or wearing—stone, or op… When heaven presents in sheets the… Since earth is earth, perhaps, not…
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…
'You know Orion always comes up s… Throwing a leg up over our fence o… And rising on his hands, he looks… Busy outdoors by lantern-light wit… I should have done by daylight, an…
Careless and still The hunter lurks With gun depressed, Facing alone The alder swamps
Spades take up leaves No better than spoons, And bags full of leaves Are light as balloons. I make a great noise