William De Witt Snodgrass
William De Witt Snodgrass was an American poet who also wrote under the pseudonym S. S. Gardons. He won the 1960 Pulitzer Prize for Poetry.
W. D. Snodgrass was born on January 5, 1926 in Beaver Falls, Pennsylvania; the family lived in Wilkinsburg, but drove to Beaver Falls for his birth since his grandfather was a doctor in the town. Eventually the family moved to Beaver Falls and Snodgrass graduated from the local high school in 1943. He then attended Geneva College until 1944 and had an offer from the Juilliard School for admission because of his musical abilities on the timpani, but he was drafted into the United States Navy before he could accept. After ... more »
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William De Witt Snodgrass Poems
The green catalpa tree has turned All white; the cherry blooms once more. In one whole year I haven't learned A blessed thing they pay you for.
Child of my winter, born When the new fallen soldiers froze In Asia's steep ravines and fouled the snows, When I was torn
Monet: “Les Nymphéas”
The eyelids glowing, some chill morning. O world half-known through opening, twilit lids Before the vague face clenches into light; O universal waters like a cloud,
After Experience Taught Me ...
After experience taught me that all the ordinary Surroundings of social life are futile and vain; I’m going to show you something very Ugly: someday, it might save your life.
What’s unseen may not exist— Or so those secret powers insist That prowl past nightfall, Enabled by the brain’s blacklist
Sorting out letters and piles of my old Canceled checks, old clippings, and yellow note cards That meant something once, I happened to find Your picture. That picture. I stopped there cold,
Who Steals My Good Name
My pale stepdaughter, just off the school bus, Scowled, 'Well, that's the last time I say my name's Snodgrass!' Just so, may that anonymous Mexican male who prodigally claims
A Locked House
As we drove back, crossing the hill, The house still Hidden in the trees, I always thought— A fool’s fear—that it might have caught
Magda Goebbels (30 April 1945)
This is the needle that we give Soldiers and children when they live Near the front in primitive Conditions or real dangers;
The Poet Ridiculed by Hysterical Academi...
Is it, then, your opinion Women are putty in your hands? Is this the face to launch upon A thousand one night stands?
Observe the cautious toadstools still on the lawn today though they grow over-evening; sun shrinks them away.
These lawn chairs and the chaise lounge of bulky redwood were purchased for my father twenty years ago, then plumped down in the yard where he seldom went when he could still work
'One Snodgrass, two Snodgrass, three Snodgrass, four . . . I took my own rollcall when I counted seconds; 'One two three, Two two three, Three . . .,' the drum score Showed only long rests to the tympani's entrance.
Vuillard: “The Mother and Sister of the ...
Admire, when you come here, the glimmering hair Of the girl; praise her pale Complexion. Think well of her dress Though that is somewhat out of fashion.
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
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Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
The green catalpa tree has turned
All white; the cherry blooms once more.
In one whole year I haven't learned
A blessed thing they pay you for.
The blossoms snow down in my hair;
The trees and I will soon be bare.
The trees have more than I to spare.
The sleek, expensive girls I teach,
Younger and pinker every year,
Bloom gradually out of reach.
The pear tree lets its petals drop
Like dandruff on a tabletop.
The girls have grown so young by now
I have to nudge myself to stare.
This year they smile and mind me how
My teeth are falling with my...