#Americans #PulitzerPrize #Women #XXCentury
No rose that in a garden ever grew… In Homer’s or in Omar’s or in min… Though buried under centuries of f… Dead dust of roses, shut from sun… Forever, and forever lost from vie…
Ah, could I lay me down in this l… And close my eyes, and let the qui… Blow over me—I am so tired, so ti… Of passing pleasant places! All m… Following Care along the dusty ro…
Make bright the arrows Gather the shields: Conquest narrows The peaceful fields. Stock well the quiver
Butterflies are white and blue In this field we wander through. Suffer me to take your hand. Death comes in a day or two. All the things we ever knew
Heap not on this mound Roses that she loved so well: Why bewilder her with roses, That she cannot see or smell? She is happy where she lies
There was a road ran past our hous… Too lovely to explore. I asked my mother once—she said That if you followed where it led It brought you to the milk-man’s d…
(Nicola Sacco—Bartolomeo Vanzett… Executed August 23, 1927 As men have loved their lovers in… And sung their wit, their virtue a… So have we loved sweet Justice to…
Night is my sister, and how deep i… How drowned in love and weedily wa… There to be fretted by the drag an… At the tide’s edge, I lie—these t… Whose arm alone between me and the…
This door you might not open, and… So enter now, and see for what sli… You are betrayed.... Here is no t… No cauldron, no clear crystal mirr… The sought-for truth, no heads of…
I shall die, but that is all that I shall do for D… I hear him leading his horse out o… I hear the clatter on the barn-flo… He is in haste; he has business in…
Let them bury your big eyes In the secret earth securely, Your thin fingers, and your fair, Soft, indefinite-colored hair,— All of these in some way, surely,
Here is a wound that never will he… Being wrought not of a dearness an… But of a love turned ashes and the… Gone out of beauty; never again wi… The grass on that scarred acre, th…
Women have loved before as I love… At least, in lively chronicles of… Of Irish waters by a Cornish prow Or Trojan waters by a Spartan mas… Much to their cost invaded—here an…
Spring rides no horses down the hi… But comes on foot, a goose-girl st… And all the loveliest things there… Come simply, so, it seems to me. If ever I said, in grief or pride…
April this year, not otherwise Than April of a year ago, Is full of whispers, full of sighs… Of dazzling mud and dingy snow; Hepaticas that pleased you so