American poet Richard Wilbur was born on this day March 1, 1921 in New York City. Renowned for his masterful use of language and impeccable rhyme, Richard Wilbur is celebrated as a linchpin in the world of contemporary literature. A two-time Pulitzer prize winner, Wilbur’s contribution to literature is profound and far-reaching, particularly in the realm of poetry where his precise craftsmanship of words and rhymes has earned him a distinguished reputation.

As a poet, Wilbur demonstrates an exceptional ability to weave words together in a manner that not only resonates with readers but also challenges them intellectually. His poetry is a blend of wit and wisdom, laced with an undercurrent of philosophical depth that makes his work both enjoyable and thought-provoking. His command over language and form is truly remarkable, and his penchant for creating intricate rhymes lends a unique musicality to his verses.

Richard Wilbur’s reputation as a master craftsman of words and rhymes is evident in his vast body of work. From his earliest collections like The Beautiful Changes to later works such as New and Collected Poems, Wilbur’s ability to manipulate language into stunningly beautiful verses is consistently evident. His work, often described as formal and elegant, showcases his skill in employing traditional poetic forms while infusing them with fresh, modern sensibilities.

Furthermore, Wilbur has also made significant contributions as a translator, bringing works from French, Russian, and Spanish into English with the same level of precision and artistry that characterizes his original compositions. In many ways, his work as a translator underscores his mastery of language – the ability to not only create but also recreate beauty within the constraints of form and meter.

Richard Wilbur’s legacy as a master craftsman of words and rhymes is firmly cemented within the annals of contemporary literature. His unique blend of intellectual depth, artistic creativity, and technical mastery makes him one of the most celebrated poets of our time.

The House

Sometimes, on waking, she would close her eyes
For a last look at that white house she knew
In sleep alone, and held no title to,
And had not entered yet, for all her sighs.

What did she tell me of that house of hers?
White gatepost; terrace; fanlight of the door;
A widow’s walk above the bouldered shore;
Salt winds that ruffle the surrounding firs.

Is she now there, wherever there may be?
Only a foolish man would hope to find
That haven fashioned by her dreaming mind.
Night after night, my love, I put to sea.

-Richard Wilbur

Curated by Jennifer