#AmericanWriters #FemaleWriters #PulitzerPrize #XXCentury
I had forgotten how the frogs must… After a year of silence, else I t… I should not so have ventured fort… At dusk upon this unfrequented roa… I am waylaid by Beauty. Who will…
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,
Time cannot break the bird’s wing… Bird and wing together Go down, one feather. No thing that ever flew, Not the lark, not you,
I cannot but remember When the year grows old— October—November— How she disliked the cold! She used to watch the swallows
Let them bury your big eyes In the secret earth securely, Your thin fingers, and your fair, Soft, indefinite-colored hair,— All of these in some way, surely,
I know the face of Falsehood and… Honeyed with unction, Plausible w… Are dear to men, whom count me not… That owe their daily credit to her… Such have been succoured out of gr…
Before she has her floor swept Or her dishes done, Any day you’ll find her A-sunning in the sun! It’s long after midnight
Time does not bring relief; you al… Who told me time would ease me of… I miss him in the weeping of the r… I want him at the shrinking of the… The old snows melt from every moun…
Once from a big, big building, When I was small, small, The queer folk in the windows Would smile at me and call. And in the hard wee gardens
Still must the poet as of old, In barren attic bleak and cold, Starve, freeze, and fashion verses… Such things as flowers and song an… Still as of old his being give
IF I should learn, in some quite… That you were gone, not to return… Read from the back-page of a paper… Held by a neighbor in a subway tra… How at the corner of this avenue
What lips my lips have kissed, and… I have forgotten, and what arms ha… Under my head till morning; but th… Is full of ghosts tonight, that ta… Upon the glass and listen for repl…
The trees along this city street, Save for the traffic and the train… Would make a sound as thin and swe… As trees in country lanes. And people standing in their shade
Listen, children: Your father is dead. From his old coats I’ll make you little jackets; I’ll make you little trousers
So, art thou feahered, art thou fl… Thou naked thing?—and canst alone Upon the unsolid summer air Sustain thyself, and prosper there… Shall no more with anxious note
