#1923 #AmericanWriters #NewHampshire #PulitzerPrize
An ant on the tablecloth Ran into a dormant moth Of many times his size. He showed not the least surprise. His business wasn’t with such.
But outer Space, At least this far, For all the fuss Of the populace Stays more popular
When I was young, we dwelt in a v… By a misty fen that rang all night… And thus it was the maidens pale I knew so well, whose garments tra… Across the reeds to a window light…
The shattered water made a misty d… Great waves looked over others com… And thought of doing something to… That water never did to land befor… The clouds were low and hairy in t…
A winter garden in an alder swamp, Where conies now come out to sun a… As near a paradise as it can be And not melt snow or start a dorma… It lifts existence on a plane of s…
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…
The well was dry beside the door, And so we went with pail and can Across the fields behind the house To seek the brook if still it ran; Not loth to have excuse to go,
ONCE on the kind of day called “… When the heat slowly hazes and the… By its own power seems to be undon… I was half boring through, half cl… A swamp of cedar. Choked with oil…
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
The clouds, the source of rain, on… Offered an opening to the source o… Which I accepted with impatient s… Looking for my old skymarks in the… But stars were scarce in that part…
I’ve known ere now an interfering… Of alder catch my lifted axe behin… But that was in the woods, to hold… From striking at another alder’s r… And that was, as I say, an alder…
Once when the snow of the year was… We stopped by a mountain pasture t… A little Morgan had one forefoot… The other curled at his breast. H… And snorted at us. And then he ha…
It is getting dark and time he dre… But the blizzard blinds him to any… The storm gets down his neck in an… That sucks his breath like a wicke… The snow blows on him and off him,…
There was never a sound beside the… And that was my long scythe whispe… What was it it whispered? I knew… Perhaps it was something about the… Something, perhaps, about the lack…
But Islands of the Blessèd, bless… I never came upon a blessèd one.