#Americans #PulitzerPrize #XIXCentury #XXCentury #1923 #NewHampshire
I’ve tried the new moon tilted in… Above a hazy tree-and-farmhouse cl… As you might try a jewel in your h… I’ve tried it fine with little bre… Alone, or in one ornament combinin…
YOU come to fetch me from my work… When supper’s on the table, and we… If I can leave off burying the wh… Soft petals fallen from the apple… (Soft petals, yes, but not so barr…
Now close the windows and hush all… If the trees must, let them silent… No bird is singing in them now, an… Be it my loss. It will be long ere the marshes re…
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
No speed of wind or water rushing… But you have speed far greater. Y… Back up a stream of radiance to th… And back through history up the st… And you were given this swiftness,…
We make ourselves a place apart Behind light words that tease and… But oh, the agitated heart Till someone find us really out. ’Tis pity if the case require
He is that fallen lance that lies… That lies unlifted now, come dew,… But still lies pointed as it ploug… If we who sight along it round the… See nothing worthy to have been it…
“You ought to have seen what I sa… To the village, through Mortenson… Blueberries as big as the end of y… Real sky-blue, and heavy, and read… In the cavernous pail of the first…
On glossy wires artistically bent, He draws himself up to his full ex… His natty wings with self-assuranc… His stinging quarters menacingly w… Poor egotist, he has no way of kno…
As I came to the edge of the wood… Thrush music—hark! Now if it was dusk outside, Inside it was dark. Too dark in the woods for a bird
There were three in the meadow by… Gathering up windrows, piling cock… With an eye always lifted toward t… Where an irregular sun—bordered cl… Darkly advanced with a perpetual d…
Seek not in me the big I capital, Not yet the little dotted in me se… If I have in me any I at all, 'Tis the iota subscript of the Gr… So small am I as an attention beg…
HERE come the line-gang pioneeri… They throw a forest down less cut… They plant dead trees for living,… They string together with a living… They string an instrument against…
A house that lacks, seemingly, mis… With doors that none but the wind… Its floor all littered with glass… It stands in a garden of old-fashi… I pass by that way in the gloaming…
The west was getting out of gold, The breath of air had died of cold… When shoeing home across the white… I thought I saw a bird alight. In summer when I passed the place