#1942 #AmericanWriters #AWitnessTree #PulitzerPrize
Roll stones down on our head! You squat old pyramid, Your last good avalanche Was long since slid. Your top has sunk too low,
The witch that came (the withered… To wash the steps with pail and ra… Was once the beauty Abishag, The picture pride of Hollywood. Too many fall from great and good
I Dwell in a lonely house I know That vanished many a summer ago, And left no trace but the cellar w… And a cellar in which the daylight… And the purple-stemmed wild raspbe…
It snowed in spring on earth so dr… The flakes could find no landing p… Hordes spent themselves to make it… And still they failed of any lasti… They made no white impression on t…
This saying good-bye on the edge o… And cold to an orchard so young in… Reminds me of all that can happen… An orchard away at the end of the… All winter, cut off by a hill from…
YOU come to fetch me from my work… When supper’s on the table, and we… If I can leave off burying the wh… Soft petals fallen from the apple… (Soft petals, yes, but not so barr…
I farm a pasture where the boulder… As touching as a basket full of eg… And though they’re nothing anybody… I wonder if it wouldn’t signify For me to send you one out where y…
It is late at night and still I a… But still I am steady and unaccus… As long as the Declaration guards My right to be equal in number of… It is nothing to me who runs the…
All out of doors looked darkly in… Through the thin frost, almost in… That gathers on the pane in empty… What kept his eyes from giving bac… Was the lamp tilted near them in h…
In going from room to room in the… I reached out blindly to save my f… But neglected, however lightly, to… My fingers and close my arms in an… A slim door got in past my guard,
(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…
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…
I staid the night for shelter at a… Behind the mountain, with a mother… Two old-believers. They did all t… The Mother Folks think a witch who has famili…
O hushed October morning mild, Thy leaves have ripened to the fal… To—morrow’s wind, if it be wild, Should waste them all. The crows above the forest call;
Between two burrs on the map Was a hollow-headed snake. The burrs were hills, the snake wa… And the hollow head was a lake. And the dot in front of a name