#Americans #PulitzerPrize #Women #XXCentury
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
Just a rainy day or two In a windy tower, That was all I had of you— Saving half an hour. Marred by greeting passing groups
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…
I think I will learn some beautif… Purposes, work hard at that. I think I will learn the Latin na… America but wherever they sing. (Shun meditation, though; invite t…
I knew her for a little ghost That in my garden walked; The wall is high—higher than most— And the green gate was locked. And yet I did not think of that
Euclid alone has looked on Beauty… Let all who prate of Beauty hold… And lay them prone upon the earth… To ponder on themselves, the while… At nothing, intricately drawn nowh…
“Thin Rain, whom are you haunting… That you haunt my door?” —Surely it is not I she’s wanting… Someone living here before— “Nobody’s in the house but me:
Am I kin to Sorrow, That so oft Falls the knocker of my door—— Neither loud nor soft, But as long accustomed,
If it were only still!— With far away the shrill Crying of a cock; Or the shaken bell From a cow’s throat
The railroad track is miles away, And the day is loud with voices sp… Yet there isn’t a train goes by al… But I hear its whistle shrieking. All night there isn’t a train goes…
As to some lovely temple, tenantle… Long since, that once was sweet wi… Knowing well its altars ruined and… Grown up between the stones, yet f… Of grief hard driven, or great lon…
All I could see from where I stoo… Was three long mountains and a woo… I turned and looked another way, And saw three islands in a bay. So with my eyes I traced the line
Into the golden vessel of great so… Let us pour all our passion; breas… Let other lovers lie, in love and… Not we,—articulate, so, but with t… Of all the world: the churning blo…
Cold wind of autumn, blowing loud At dawn, a fortnight overdue, Jostling the doors, and tearing t… My bedroom to rejoin the cloud, I know—for I can hear the hiss
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
