#1923 #AmericanWriters #NewHampshire #PulitzerPrize
A breeze discovered my open book And began to flutter the leaves to… For a poem there used to be on Sp… I tried to tell her “There’s no s… For whom would a poem on Spring b…
Over back where they speak of life… ('You couldn’t call it living, for… There was an old, old house renewe… And in it a piano loudly playing. Out in the plowed ground in the co…
'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…
When I was young, we dwelt in a v… By a misty fen that rang all night… And thus it was the maidens pale I knew so well, whose garments tra… Across the reeds to a window light…
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.
The heart can think of no devotion Greater than being shore to ocean— Holding the curve of one position, Counting an endless repetition.
Out alone in the winter rain, Intent on giving and taking pain. But never was I far out of sight Of a certain upper-window light. The light was what it was all abou…
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
Something inspires the only cow of… To make no more of a wall than an… And think no more of wall-builders… Her face is flecked with pomace an… A cider syrup. Having tasted frui…
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…
We chanced in passing by that afte… To catch it in a sort of special p… Among tar-banded ancient cherry tr… Set well back from the road in ran… The little cottage we were speakin…
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…
When I was young my teachers were… I gave up fire for form till I wa… I suffered like a metal being cast… I went to school to age to learn t… Now when I am old my teachers are…
One thing has a shelving bank, Another a rotting plank, To give it cozier skies And make up for its lack of size. My own strategic retreat
(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…