There was such speed in her little body,
And such lightness in her footfall,
It is no wonder her brown study
Astonishes us all.

(John Crowe Ransom (1888-1974), U.S. poet. Bells for John Whiteside's Daughter (l. 1-4). . . Oxford Book of American Verse, The. F. O. Matthiessen, ed. (1950) Oxford University Press.)

Tawny are the leaves turned, but they still hold.
It is the harvest; what shall this land produce?
A meager hill of kernels, a runnel of juice.
Declension looks from our land, it is old.

(John Crowe Ransom (1888-1974), U.S. poet. Antique Harvesters (l. 1-4). . . Oxford Book of American Verse, The. F. O. Matthiessen, ed. (1950) Oxford University Press.)

The horn, the hounds, the lank mares coursing by
Under quaint archetypes of chivalry;
And the fox, lovely ritualist, in flight
Offering his unearthly ghost to quarry;

(John Crowe Ransom (1888-1974), U.S. poet. Antique Harvesters (l. 20-23). . . Oxford Book of American Verse, The. F. O. Matthiessen, ed. (1950) Oxford University Press.)

Alas,

For the tireless heart within the little
Lady with rod that made them rise
From their noon apple-dreams, and scuttle
Goose-fashion under the skies!

(John Crowe Ransom (1888-1974), U.S. poet. Bells for John Whiteside's Daughter (l. 16-20). . . Oxford Book of American Verse, The. F. O. Matthiessen, ed. (1950) Oxford University Press.)

The curse of hell upon the sleek upstart
That got the Captain finally on his back
And took the red red vitals of his heart
And made the kites to whet their beaks clack clack.

(John Crowe Ransom (1888-1974), U.S. poet. Captain Carpenter (l. 61-64). . . Oxford Book of American Verse, The. F. O. Matthiessen, ed. (1950) Oxford University Press.)

I would not knock old fellows in the dust
But there lay Captain Carpenter on his back
His weapons were the old heart in his bust
And a blade shook between rotten teeth alack.

(John Crowe Ransom (1888-1974), U.S. poet. Captain Carpenter (l. 45-48). . . Oxford Book of American Verse, The. F. O. Matthiessen, ed. (1950) Oxford University Press.)

For I could tell you a story which is true;
I know a lady with a terrible tongue,
Blear eyes fallen from blue,
All her perfections tarnished?and yet it is not long
Since she was lovelier than any of you.

(John Crowe Ransom (1888-1974), U.S. poet. Blue Girls (l. 13-17). . . Norton Anthology of Modern Poetry, The. Richard Ellmann and Robert O'Clair, eds. (2d ed., 1988) W. W. Norton & Company.)

Sweet ladies, long may ye bloom, and toughly I hope ye may thole,
But was she not lucky? In flowers and lace and mourning,
In love and great honor we bade God rest her soul
After six little spaces of chill, and six of burning.

(John Crowe Ransom (1888-1974), U.S. poet. Here Lies a Lady (l. 13-16). . . Norton Anthology of Modern Poetry, The. Richard Ellmann and Robert O'Clair, eds. (2d ed., 1988) W. W. Norton & Company.)

For even within his tent she accomplished his derision;
She loosed one veil and another, standing unafraid;
And he perished.

(John Crowe Ransom (1888-1974), U.S. poet. Judith of Bethulia (l. 27-29). . . Norton Anthology of Modern Poetry, The. Richard Ellmann and Robert O'Clair, eds. (2d ed., 1988) W. W. Norton & Company.)

Now the poor comb stood up straight
But Chucky did not.

(John Crowe Ransom (1888-1974), U.S. poet. Janet Waking (l. 19-20). . . Oxford Book of Death, The. D. J. Enright, ed. (1987) Oxford University Press.)