#AmericanWriters #PulitzerPrize #1928 #WestRunningBrook
I had for my winter evening walk— No one at all with whom to talk, But I had the cottages in a row Up to their shining eyes in snow. And I thought I had the folk with…
He thought he kept the universe al… For all the voice in answer he cou… Was but the mocking echo of his ow… From some tree-hidden cliff across… Some morning from the boulder-brok…
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
There overtook me and drew me in To his down-hill, early-morning st… And set me five miles on my road Better than if he had had me ride, A man with a swinging bag for’load
One thing has a shelving bank, Another a rotting plank, To give it cozier skies And make up for its lack of size. My own strategic retreat
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…
Some things are never clear. But the weather is clear tonight, Thanks to a clearing rain. The mountains are brought up near, The stars are brought out bright.
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…
When I see birches bend to left a… Across the lines of straighter dar… I like to think some boy’s been sw… But swinging doesn’t bend them dow… As ice-storms do. Often you must…
It went many years, But at last came a knock, And I thought of the door With no lock to lock. I blew out the light,
All crying, ‘We will go with you,… The foliage follow him, leaf and s… But a sleep oppresses them as they… And they end by bidding them as th… And they end by bidding him stay w…
My long two-pointed ladder’s stick… Toward heaven still, And there’s a barrel that I didn’… Beside it, and there may be two or… Apples I didn’t pick upon some bo…
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…
Let me be the one To do what is done.
Why make so much of fragmentary bl… In here and there a bird, or butte… Or flower, or wearing—stone, or op… When heaven presents in sheets the… Since earth is earth, perhaps, not…
