#1942 #AmericanWriters #AWitnessTree #PulitzerPrize
It is blue-butterfly day here in s… And with these sky-flakes down in… There is more unmixed color on the… Than flowers will show for days un… But these are flowers that fly and…
The soil now gets a rumpling soft… And small regard to the future of… The final flat of the hoe’s approv… Is reserved for the bed of a few s… There is seldom more than a man to…
What things for dream there are wh… Moving amond tall haycocks lightly… I enter alone upon the stubbled fi… From which the laborers’ voices la… And in the antiphony of afterglow
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…
Did you stay up last night (the M… To see the star shower known as L… That once a year by hand or appara… Is so mysteriously pelted at us? It is but fiery puffs of dust and…
As I came to the edge of the wood… Thrush music—hark! Now if it was dusk outside, Inside it was dark. Too dark in the woods for a bird
The play seems out for an almost i… Don’t mind a little thing like the… The only I worry about is the sun… We’ll be all right if nothing goes…
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…
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…
Lovers, forget your love, And list to the love of these, She a window flower, And he a winter breeze. When the frosty window veil
Never ask of money spent Where the spender thinks it went. Nobody was ever meant To remember or invent What he did with every cent.
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…
Let chaos storm! Let cloud shapes swarm! I wait for form.
Dust always blowing about the town… Except when sea—fog laid it down, And I was one of the children tol… Some of the blowing dust was gold. All the dust the wind blew high
It was long I lay Awake that night Wishing that night Would name the hour And tell me whether