Who is Nancy Byrd Turner

Nancy Byrd Turner (July 29, 1880 – September 5, 1971) was an American poet, editor and lecturer. She was a recipient of the Golden Rose Award and the Virginia Writers' Club's poetry prize.LifeNancy Byrd Turner was born in Boydton, Virginia, July 29, 1880. She was the eldest child of Rev. Byrd Thornton and Nancy Turner.In 1898, she graduated from Hannah More Academy in Maryland and began work as a teacher. During this period her work appeared in several national magazines including the Saturday Evening Post and Scribner's.In 1917, she moved to Boston to join the editorial staff of The Youth's Companion. By 1922 she was an editor for The Atlantic, The Independent, and Houghton Mifflin. She joined the MacDowell art colony in 1925 and remained there until 1944.Her first book of poetry, A Rib...
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Nancy Byrd Turner Poems

  • Lincoln
    There was a boy of other days,
    A quiet, awkward, earnest lad,
    Who trudged long weary miles to get
    A book on which his heart was set-...
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Top 10 most used topics by Nancy Byrd Turner

Room 1 Quiet 1 Book 1 Picture 1 Humble 1 Lamp 1 Hard 1 Candle 1 Face 1 Strong 1


Nancy Byrd Turner Quotes

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Comments about Nancy Byrd Turner

O07chn: "death is only a quiet door in an old wall." - nancy byrd turner
Teamshivrit: nimrit you rock the bookshop has a thousand books,all colors, hues, and tinges,and every cover is a doorthat turns on magic hinges.:-nancy byrd turner..
Nimrit0: stay resilient nimrit the bookshop has a thousand books,all colors, hues, and tinges,and every cover is a doorthat turns on magic hinges.:-nancy byrd turner..
Melaniejaxn: everything is black&gold black&gold, tonight: yellow pumpkins, yellow moon yellow candlelight; jet-black cats with golden eyes shadows black as ink, firelight blinking in the dark with a yellow blink when the world turns black and gold then it's halloween! -nancy byrd turner
Niftybuckles: poem by nancy byrd turner
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Poem of the day

Alfred Lord Tennyson Poem
In Memoriam A. H. H. OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII: Part 073
 by Alfred Lord Tennyson

So many worlds, so much to do,
So little done, such things to be,
How know I what had need of thee,
For thou wert strong as thou wert true?

The fame is quench'd that I foresaw,
The head hath miss'd an earthly wreath:
I curse not nature, no, nor death;
...

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