For a hundred and fifty years, in the pasture of dead horses, roots of pine trees pushed through the pale curves of your ribs, yellow blossoms flourished above you in autumn, and in winter frost heaved your bones in the… — Donald Hall Copy Share Image
“When a long-desired baby is born, what joy! More happiness than we find in sex, more than we take in success, revenge, or wealth.… — Donald Hall Copy Share Image
“The tree is burning on the autumn noon That builds each year the leaf and bark again. Though frost will strip it raw and… — Donald Hall Copy Share Image
I wish you were that birch rising from the clump behind you, and I the gray oak alongside. — Donald Hall Copy Share Image
“When I was sixteen I read ten books a week: E.E. Cummings, William Faulkner, Henry James, Hart Crane, John Steinbeck. I thought I progressed… — Donald Hall Copy Share Image
Baseball, because of its continuity over the space of America and the time of America, is a place where memory gathers. — Donald Hall Copy Share Image
Sweet death, small son, our instrument Of immortality, Your cries and hungers document Our bodily decay. — Donald Hall Copy Share Image
For a hundred and fifty years, in the pasture of dead horses, roots of pine trees pushed through the pale curves of your ribs,… — Donald Hall Copy Share Image
The pleasure we feel, reading a poem, is our assurance of its integrity. — Donald Hall Copy Share Image
“As Henry Moore carved or modelled his sculpture every day, he strove to surpass Donatello 4. and failed, but woke the next morning elated… — Donald Hall Copy Share Image
