#AmericanWriters #FemaleWriters #PulitzerPrize #XXCentury
The room is full of you!—As I cam… And closed the door behind me, all… A something in the air, intangible… Yet stiff with meaning, struck my… Sharp, unfamiliar odors have destr…
I cannot but remember When the year grows old— October—November— How she disliked the cold! She used to watch the swallows
When will you learn, myself, to be a dying leaf on a living tree? Budding, swelling, growing strong, Wearing green, but not for long, Drawing sustenance from air,
These wet rocks where the tide has… Barnacled white and weeded brown And slimed beneath to a beautiful… These wet rocks where the tide wen… Will show again when the tide is h…
Brother, that breathe the August… Ten thousand years from now, And smell—if still your orchards b… Tart apples on the bough— The early windfall under the tree,
People that build their houses inl… People that buy a plot of ground Shaped like a house, and build a h… Far from the sea-board, far from t… Of water sucking the hollow ledges…
Boys and girls that held her dear, Do your weeping now; All you loved of her lies here. Brought to earth the arrogant brow… And the withering tongue
As I sat down by Saddle Stream To bathe my dusty feet there, A boy was standing on the bridge Any girl would meet there. As I went over Woody Knob
Safe upon the solid rock the ugly… Come and see my shining palace bui…
Childhood is not from birth to a c… The child is grown, and puts away… Childhood is the kingdom where nob… Nobody that matters, that is. Dis… Die, whom one never has seen or ha…
Oh, my beloved, have you thought o… How in the years to come unscrupul… More cruel than Death, will tear… And make you old, and leave me in… How you and I, who scale together…
Oh, Prue she has a patient man, And Joan a gentle lover, And Agatha’s Arth’ is a hug-the-h… But my true love’s a rover! Mig, her man’s as good as cheese
I had a little Sorrow, Born of a little Sin, I found a room all damp with gloom And shut us all within; And, “Little Sorrow, weep,” said…
Oh, lay my ashes on the wind That blows across the sea. And I shall meet a fisherman Out of Capri, And he will say, seeing me,
Not even my pride shall suffer muc… Not even my pride at all, maybe, If this ill-timed, intemperate clu… Be loosed by you and not by me, Will suffer; I have been so true