#AmericanWriters #PulitzerPrize #1936 #AFurtherRange
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.
He halted in the wind, and– what… Far in the maples, pale, but not a… He stood there bringing March aga… And yet too ready to believe the m… ‘Oh, that’s the Paradise-in-bloom…
The Voice said, “Hurl her down!” The Voices, “How far down?” “Seven levels of the world.” “How much time have we?” “Take twenty years.
As I have known them passionate a… The gold for which they leave the… Of lyric is a golden light divine, Never the gold of darkness from a… The spirit plays us strange religi…
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…
“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…
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…
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
Something I saw or thought I saw In the desert at midnight in Utah… Looking out of my lower berth At moonlit sky and moonlit earth. The sky had here and there a star;
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…
We saw leaves go to glory, Then almost migratory Go part way down the lane, And then to end the story Get beaten down and pasted
The little old house was out with… In front at the edge of the road w… A roadside stand that too pathetic… It would not be fair to say for a… But for some of the money, the cas…
As gay for you to take your father… As take his gun—rod—to go hunting—… You nick my spruce until its fiber… It gives up standing straight and… You link an arm in its arm and you…
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…
Square Matthew Hale’s young graft… Began to blossom at the age of fiv… And after having entertained the b… And cast its flowers and all the s… It set itself to keep those three…
