#AmericanWriters #PulitzerPrize #1942 #AWitnessTree
Having a wheel and four legs of it… Has never availed the cumbersome g… To get it anywhere that I can see… These hands have helped it go, and… Not all the motion, though, they e…
The sound of the closing outside d… You made no sound in the grass wit… As far as you went from the door,… But you had awakened under the mor… The first song-bird that awakened…
I said to myself almost in prayer, It will start hair raising current… When you give it the livid metal-s… It will make a homicidal roar. It will shake its cast stone reef…
I slumbered with your poems on my… Spread open as I dropped them hal… Like dove wings on a figure on a t… To see, if in a dream they brought… I might not have the chance I mis…
God made a beatous garden With lovely flowers strown, But one straight, narrow pathway That was not overgrown. And to this beauteous garden
Let chaos storm! Let cloud shapes swarm! I wait for form.
Snow falling and night falling fas… In a field I looked into going pa… And the ground almost covered smoo… But a few weeds and stubble showin… The woods around it have it—it is…
There were three in the meadow by… Gathering up windrows, piling hayc… With an eye always lifted toward t… Where an irregular, sun-bordered c… Darkly advanced with a perpetual d…
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
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…
When the wind works against us in… And pelts with snow The lowest chamber window on the e… And whispers with a sort of stifle… The beast,
Spades take up leaves No better than spoons, And bags full of leaves Are light as balloons. I make a great noise
Was there even a cause too lost, Ever a cause that was lost too lon… Or that showed with the lapse of t… For the generous tears of youth an…
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
