#AmericanWriters #PulitzerPrize #1936 #AFurtherRange
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,
Here further up the mountain slope Than there was every any hope, My father built, enclosed a spring… Strung chains of wall round everyt… Subdued the growth of earth to gra…
I found a dimpled spider, fat and… On a white heal-all, holding up a… Like a white piece of rigid satin… Assorted characters of death and b… Mixed ready to begin the morning r…
A tree’s leaves may be ever so goo… So may its bar, so may its wood; But unless you put the right thing… It never will show much flower or… But I may be one who does not car…
You’ll wait a long, long time for… To happen in heaven beyond the flo… And the Northern Lights that run… The sun and moon get crossed, but… Nor strike out fire from each othe…
The same leaves over and over agai… They fall from giving shade above To make one texture of faded brown And fit the earth like a leather g… Before the leaves can mount again
Out through the fields and the woo… And over the walls I have wended; I have climbed the hills of view And looked at the world, and desce… I have come by the highway home,
These pools that, though in forest… The total sky almost without defec… And like the flowers beside them,… Will like the flowers beside them… And yet not out by any brook or ri…
If this uncertain age in which we… Were really as dark as I hear sag… And I convinced that they were re… I should not curse myself with it… But leaving not the chair I long…
For every parcel I stoop down to… I lose some other off my arms and… And the whole pile is slipping, bo… Extremes too hard to comprehend at… Yet nothing I should care to leav…
We chanced in passing by that afte… To catch it in a sort of special p… Among tar-banded ancient cherry tr… Set well back from the road in ran… The little cottage we were speakin…
Here come real stars to fill the u… And here on earth come emulating f… That though they never equal stars… (And they were never really stars… Achieve at times a very star—like…
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…
Abstraction is an old story with the philosophers, but it has been like a new toy in the hands of the artists of our day. Why can’t we have any one quality of poetry we choose by itself...
The sentencing goes blithely on it… And takes the playfully objected r… As surely as it takes the stroke a… In having its undeviable say.
