#Americans #PulitzerPrize #XIXCentury #XXCentury #1928 #WestRunningBrook
As gay for you to take your father’s axe As take his gun—rod—to go hunting—fishin… You nick my spruce until its fiber crack… It gives up standing straight and goes d… You link an arm in its arm and you lean
#1942 #AWitnessTree
To Time it never seems that he is brave To set himself against the peaks of snow To lay them level with the running wave, Nor is he overjoyed when they lie low, But only grave, contemplative and grave.
Seek not in me the big I capital, Not yet the little dotted in me seek. If I have in me any I at all, 'Tis the iota subscript of the Greek. So small am I as an attention beggar.
Between two burrs on the map Was a hollow-headed snake. The burrs were hills, the snake was a st… And the hollow head was a lake. And the dot in front of a name
Before man to blow to right The wind once blew itself untaught, And did its loudest day and night In any rough place where it caught. Man came to tell it what was wrong:
#1923 #NewHampshire
Never have I been glad or sad That there was such a thing as bad. There had to be, I understood, For there to have been any good. It was by having been contrasted
I wonder about the trees. Why do we wish to bear Forever the noise of these More than another noise So close to our dwelling place?
Here’s first a gloveless hand warm from… A perch and resting place ’twixt wood an… Bright-black-eyed silvery creature, brus… The wings not folded in repose, but spre… (Who would you be, I wonder, by those m…
A dented spider like a snow drop white On a white Heal-all, holding up a moth Like a white piece of lifeless satin clo… Saw ever curious eye so strange a sight?… Portent in little, assorted death and bl…
I’ve known ere now an interfering branch Of alder catch my lifted axe behind me. But that was in the woods, to hold my ha… From striking at another alder’s roots, And that was, as I say, an alder branch…
What tree may not the fig be gathered fr… The grape may not be gathered from the b… It’s all you know the grape, or know the… As a girl gathered from the birch myself Equally with my weight in grapes, one au…
The living come with grassy tread To read the gravestones on the hill; The graveyard draws the living still, But never anymore the dead. The verses in it say and say:
The way a crow Shook down on me The dust of snow From a hemlock tree Has given my heart
“OH, let’s go up the hill and scare our… As reckless as the best of them to-night… By setting fire to all the brush we pile… With pitchy hands to wait for rain or sn… Oh, let’s not wait for rain to make it s…
#1916 #MountainInterval
A head thrusts in as for the view, But where it is it thrusts in from Or what it is it thrusts into By that Cyb’laean avenue, And what can of its coming come,
