#Americans #PulitzerPrize #Women #XXCentury
I cannot but remember When the year grows old— October—November— How she disliked the cold! She used to watch the swallows
Oh, my belovèd, have you thought… How in the years to come unscrupul… More cruel than Death, will tear… And make you old, and leave me in… How you and I, who scale together…
Cruel of heart, lay down my song, Your reading eyes have done me wro… Not for you was the pen bitten, And the mind wrung, and the song w…
I am not resigned to the shutting… So it is, and so it will be, for s… Into the darkness they go, the wis… With lilies and with laurel they g… Lovers and thinkers, into the eart…
Was it for this I uttered prayers… And sobbed and cursed and kicked t… That now, domestic as a plate, I should retire at half-past eight…
Am I kin to Sorrow, That so oft Falls the knocker of my door—— Neither loud nor soft, But as long accustomed,
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…
And do you think that love itself, Living in such an ugly house, Can prosper long? We meet and part; Our talk is all of heres and nows,
“Heaven bless the babe!” they said… “What queer books she must have re… (Love, by whom I was beguiled, Grant I may not bear a child.) “Little does she guess to-day
Let you not say of me when I am o… In pretty worship of my withered h… Forgetting who I am, and how the… Of such a life as mine run red and… Even to the ultimate sifting dust,…
(Vassar College, 1918) O, loveliest throat of all sweet t… Where now no more the music is, With hands that wrote you little n… I write you little elegies!
My most Distinguished Guest and… The pallid hare that runs before t… Having brought your earnest counse… Now have I somewhat of my own to… That it is folly to be sunk in lov…
Oh, oh, you will be sorry for that… Give me back my book and take my k… Was it my enemy or my friend I he… “What a big book for such a little… Come, I will show you now my newe…
Death, I say, my heart is bowed Unto thine,—O mother! This red gown will make a shroud Good as any other! (I, that would not wait to wear
If I were to walk this way Hand in hand with Grief, I should mark that maple-spray Coming into leaf. I should note how the old burrs
