Biography of Ann Stanford
Ann Stanford (November 25, 1916, La Habra, California – July 12, 1987) was an American poet.
She graduated from Stanford University in 1938 Phi Beta Kappa, and University of California, Los Angeles, with an M.A. in journalism in 1958, an M.A. in English in 1961, and a Ph.D. in English and American literature in 1962.
Stanford married Roland Arthur White, an architect, in 1942, and they had three daughters and one son.
When she died in 1987, at the age of seventy, Ann Stanford was at the apex of a long and distinguished career as a poet, translator, editor, scholar and teacher. Over a period of forty years, she had written eight volumes of poetry, two verse plays, and a book-length study of the Puritan poet Anne Bradstreet. She had also translated the classic Sanskrit text The Bhagavad Gita and edited The Women Poets in English, an anthology that gathered, for the first time, hundreds of years of poetry by women. Her poems had appeared regularly in the most prestigious journals and magazines—the New Yorker, The Atlantic, Poetry, The New Republic, The Southern Review—and had been widely honored.
Ann Stanford Poems
From the center of our body Come the bright flowers.
You must remember never to offend the gods by being too sure of anything. Think of Niobe, how she grew in pride watching her seven tall sons and seven fair daughters.
To Her Spirit At Winter Solstice
Now the year ends darkly. The sun drifts in the south. Will it ever return?
This is the village where we grew Our fathers and their sires in line The trees they planted shade the view And the white houses shine.
My house is torn down-- Plaster sifting, the pillars broken, Beams jagged, the wall crushed by the bulldozer. The whole roof has fallen
I am terrified marooned on a rock with a gale freshening and the waves already spatter me with spindrift.
My house is torn down--
Plaster sifting, the pillars broken,
Beams jagged, the wall crushed by the bulldozer.
The whole roof has fallen
On the hall and the kitchen
The bedrooms, the parlor.
They are trampling the garden--
My mother's lilac, my father's grapevine,