#AmericanWriters #PulitzerPrize #1928 #WestRunningBrook
Oh, stormy stormy world, The days you were not swirled Around with mist and cloud, Or wrapped as in a shroud, And the sun’s brilliant ball
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…
Out walking in the frozen swamp on… I paused and said, 'I will turn b… No, I will go on farther—and we s… The hard snow held me, save where… One foot went through. The view w…
A Stranger came to the door at ev… And he spoke the bridegroom fair. He bore a green-white stick in his… And, for all burden, care. He asked with the eyes more than t…
This biplane is the shape of human… Its name might better be First Mo… Its makers’ name—Time cannot get… For it was writ in heaven doubly…
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
My Sorrow, when she’s here with m… Thinks these dark days of autumn r… Are beautiful as days can be; She loves the bare, the withered t… She walks the sodden pasture lane.
A plow, they say, to plow the snow… They cannot mean to plant it, no— Unless in bitterness to mock At having cultivated rock.
The danger not an inch outside Behind the porthole’s slab of glas… And double ring of fitted brass I trust feels properly defied.
If tires of trees I seek again mankind, Well I know where to hie me—in the dawn, To a slope where the cattle keep the lawn. There amid loggin juniper reclined, Myself unseen, I see in w...
O hushed October morning mild, Thy leaves have ripened to the fal… To—morrow’s wind, if it be wild, Should waste them all. The crows above the forest call;
It is as true as Caesar’s name wa… That no economist was ever wiser (Though prodigal himself and a des… Of capital and calling thrift a mi… And when we get too far apart in w…
A breeze discovered my open book And began to flutter the leaves to… For a poem there used to be on Sp… I tried to tell her “There’s no s… For whom would a poem on Spring b…
“When I was just as far as I coul… From here today, There was an hour All still When leaning with my head against…
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…
