Halloween Songs & Poems for Kids

Halloween Songs for Kids

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Halloween Collection IV

Theme in Yellow

by Carl Sandburg

I spot the hills

With yellow balls in autumn.

I light the prairie cornfields

Orange and tawny gold clusters

And I am called pumpkins.

On the last of October

When dusk is fallen

Children join hands

And circle round me

Singing ghost songs

And love to the harvest moon;

I am a jack-o'-lantern

With terrible teeth

And the children know

I am fooling.

Copyright Credit: Carl Sandburg, "Theme in Yellow"

from Chicago Poems (New York: Henry Holt

and Company, 1916). Public domain.

Some One

by Walter de la Mare

Some one came knocking

At my wee, small door;

Some one came knocking,

I’m sure—sure—sure;

I listened, I opened,

I looked to left and right,

But nought there was a-stirring

In the still dark night;

Only the busy beetle

Tap-tapping on the wall,

Only from the forest

The screech-owl’s call,

Only the cricket whistling

While the dewdrops fall,

So I know not who came knocking,

At all, at all, at all.

All Hallows

by Louise Glück

Even now this landscape is assembling.

The hills darken. The oxen

sleep in their blue yoke,

the fields having been

picked clean, the sheaves

bound evenly and piled at the roadside

among cinquefoil, as the toothed moon rises:

This is the barrenness

of harvest or pestilence.

And the wife leaning out the window

with her hand extended, as in payment,

and the seeds

distinct, gold, calling

Come here

Come here, little one

And the soul creeps out of the tree.

Macbeth, Act IV, Scene I

[Round about the cauldron go]

by William Shakespeare

The three witches, casting a spell

Round about the cauldron go;   

In the poison’d entrails throw.   

Toad, that under cold stone    

Days and nights hast thirty one   

Swelter’d venom sleeping got,   

Boil thou first i’ the charmed pot.   

     Double, double toil and trouble; 

     Fire burn and cauldron bubble.   

Fillet of a fenny snake,   

In the cauldron boil and bake;   

Eye of newt, and toe of frog,   

Wool of bat, and tongue of dog,   

Adder’s fork, and blind-worm’s sting,   

Lizard’s leg, and howlet’s wing,   

For a charm of powerful trouble, 

Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.   

     Double, double toil and trouble;   

     Fire burn and cauldron bubble.  

Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf,      

Witches’ mummy, maw and gulf     

Of the ravin’d salt-sea shark,     

Root of hemlock digg’d i’ the dark,     

Liver of blaspheming Jew,      

Gall of goat, and slips of yew     

Sliver’d in the moon’s eclipse,     

Nose of Turk, and Tartar’s lips,     

Finger of birth-strangled babe      

Ditch-deliver’d by a drab,     

Make the gruel thick and slab:     

Add thereto a tiger’s chaudron,     

For the ingredients of our cauldron.

     Double, double toil and trouble;   

     Fire burn and cauldron bubble.

Mr. Macklin’s Jack O’Lantern

by David McCord

Mr. Macklin takes his knife 

And carves the yellow pumpkin face: 

Three holes bring eyes and nose to life, 

The mouth has thirteen teeth in place. 

Then Mr. Macklin just for fun 

Transfers the corn-cob pipe from his 

Wry mouth to Jack’s, and everyone 

Dies laughing! O what fun it is 

Till Mr. Macklin draws the shade 

And lights the candle in Jack’s skull.

Then all the inside dark is made 

As spooky and as horrorful 

As Halloween, and creepy crawl 

The shadows on the tool-house floor, 

With Jack’s face dancing on the wall. 

O Mr. Macklin! where's the door?

Dusk in Autumn

by Sara Teasdale

The moon is like a scimitar,

A little silver scimitar,

A-drifting down the sky.

And near beside it is a star,

A timid twinkling golden star,

That watches like an eye.

 

And thro’ the nursery window-pane

The witches have a fire again,

Just like the ones we make,—

And now I know they’re having tea,

I wish they’d give a cup to me,

With witches’ currant cake.

The Haunted House

by Felicia Dorothea Hemans

I seem like one

Who treads alone

   Some banquet-hall deserted,

Whose lights are fled,

Whose garlands dead,

   And all but me departed.

           —Thomas Moore, “Oft in the Stilly Night (Scotch Air)”

See’st thou yon gray gleaming hall,

Where the deep elm-shadows fall?

Voices that have left the earth

     Long ago,

Still are murmuring round its hearth,

     Soft and low:

Ever there;—yet one alone

Hath the gift to hear their tone.

Guests come thither, and depart,

Free of step, and light of heart;

Children, with sweet visions blessed,

In the haunted chambers rest;

One alone unslumbering lies

When the night hath sealed all eyes,

One quick heart and watchful ear,

Listening for those whispers clear.

 

See’st thou where the woodbine-flowers

O’er yon low porch hang in showers?

Startling faces of the dead,

     Pale, yet sweet,

One lone woman’s entering tread

     There still meet!

Some with young, smooth foreheads fair,

Faintly shining through bright hair;

Some with reverend locks of snow—

All, all buried long ago!

All, from under deep sea-waves,

Or the flowers of foreign graves,

Or the old and bannered aisle,

Where their high tombs gleam the while;

Rising, wandering, floating by,

Suddenly and silently,

Through their earthly home and place,

But amidst another race.

 

Wherefore, unto one alone,

Are those sounds and visions known?

Wherefore hath that spell of power

     Dark and dread,

On her soul, a baleful dower,

     Thus been shed?

Oh! in those deep-seeing eyes,

No strange gift of mystery lies!

She is lone where once she moved,

Fair, and happy, and beloved!

Sunny smiles were glancing round her,

Tendrils of kind hearts had bound her;

Now those silver chords are broken,

Those bright looks have left no token;

Not one trace on all the earth,

Save her memory of their mirth.

She is lone and lingering now,

Dreams have gathered o’er her brow,

Midst gay songs and children’s play,

She is dwelling far away;

Seeing what none else may see—

Haunted still her place must be!

Copyright Credit: Felicia Dorothea Hemans, “The Haunted House”

from National lyrics, and songs for music.  Dublin: William Curry Jr.

and Company; London: Simpkin and Marshall, 1834. Public domain.

All Hallows’ Eve

by Dorothea Tanning

Be perfect, make it otherwise.

Yesterday is torn in shreds.

Lightning’s thousand sulfur eyes

Rip apart the breathing beds.

Hear bones crack and pulverize.

Doom creeps in on rubber treads.

Countless overwrought housewives,

Minds unraveling like threads,

Try lipstick shades to tranquilize

Fears of age and general dreads.

Sit tight, be perfect, swat the spies,

Don’t take faucets for fountainheads.

Drink tasty antidotes. Otherwise

You and the werewolf: newlyweds.

Copyright Credit: Dorothea Tanning, “All Hallows’ Eve”

from Coming to That. Copyright © 2011 by Dorothea Tanning.

Reprinted by permission of Graywolf Press.

Ghost Music

by Robert Graves

Gloomy and bare the organ-loft,

Bent-backed and blind the organist.

From rafters looming shadowy,

From the pipes’ tuneful company,

Drifted together drowsily,

Innumerable, formless, dim,

The ghosts of long-dead melodies,

Of anthems, stately, thunderous,

Of Kyries shrill and tremulous:

In melancholy drowsy-sweet

They huddled there in harmony.

Like bats at noontide rafter-hung.

Copyright © 2016 by Wayne Miller.

Originally published in Poem-a-Day

on October 15, 2016,

by the Academy of American Poets.

All Souls’ Night

by William Butler Yeats

Epilogue to "A Vision"

Midnight has come and the great Christ Church bell
And many a lesser bell sound through the room;

And it is All Souls’ Night.
And two long glasses brimmed with muscatel

Bubble upon the table. A ghost may come;

For it is a ghost’s right,

His element is so fine

Being sharpened by his death,

To drink from the wine-breath

While our gross palates drink from the whole wine.

I need some mind that, if the cannon sound
From every quarter of the world, can stay
Wound in mind’s pondering,
As mummies in the mummy-cloth are wound;
Because I have a marvellous thing to say,
A certain marvellous thing
None but the living mock,
Though not for sober ear;
It may be all that hear
Should laugh and weep an hour upon the clock.

Horton’s the first I call. He loved strange thought

And knew that sweet extremity of pride

That’s called platonic love,

And that to such a pitch of passion wrought

Nothing could bring him, when his lady died,

Anodyne for his love.

Words were but wasted breath;

One dear hope had he:

The inclemency

Of that or the next winter would be death.

Two thoughts were so mixed up I could not tell

Whether of her or God he thought the most,

But think that his mind’s eye,

When upward turned, on one sole image fell;

And that a slight companionable ghost,

Wild with divinity,

Had so lit up the whole

Immense miraculous house

The Bible promised us,

It seemed a gold-fish swimming in a bowl.

On Florence Emery I call the next,

Who finding the first wrinkles on a face

Admired and beautiful,

And by foreknowledge of the future vexed;

Diminished beauty, multiplied commonplace;

Preferred to teach a school

Away from neighbour or friend,

Among dark skins, and there

Permit foul years to wear

Hidden from eyesight to the unnoticed end.

Before that end much had she ravelled out

From a discourse in figurative speech

By some learned Indian

On the soul’s journey. How it is whirled about

Wherever the orbit of the moon can reach,

Until it plunge into the sun;

And there, free and yet fast,

Being both Chance and Choice,

Forget its broken toys

And sink into its own delight at last.

I call MacGregor Mathers from his grave,

For in my first hard spring-time we were friends,

Although of late estranged.

I thought him half a lunatic, half knave,

And told him so, but friendship never ends;

And what if mind seem changed,

And it seem changed with the mind,

When thoughts rise up unbid

On generous things that he did

And I grow half contented to be blind!

He had much industry at setting out,

Much boisterous courage, before loneliness

Had driven him crazed;

For meditations upon unknown thought

Make human intercourse grow less and less;

They are neither paid nor praised.

But he’d object to the host,

The glass because my glass;

A ghost-lover he was

And may have grown more arrogant being a ghost.

But names are nothing. What matter who it be,

So that his elements have grown so fine

The fume of muscatel

Can give his sharpened palate ecstasy

No living man can drink from the whole wine.

I have mummy truths to tell

Whereat the living mock,

Though not for sober ear,

For maybe all that hear

Should laugh and weep an hour upon the clock.

Such thought—such thought have I that hold it tight

Till meditation master all its parts,

Nothing can stay my glance

Until that glance run in the world’s despite

To where the damned have howled away their hearts,

And where the blessed dance;

Such thought, that in it bound

I need no other thing,

Wound in mind’s wandering

As mummies in the mummy-cloth are wound.

Copyright Credit: William Butler Yeats, “All Souls’ Night”

from Seven Poems and a Fragment.

Dundrum: The Cuala Press, 1922. Public domain.

"Top 25 Scary Poems of All Time"

Gathered by Michael R. Burch

The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes
Tom O'Bedlam's Song by Anonymous
A Lyke-Wake Dirge by Anonymous
The Raven, Ulalume, Alone and Lenore by Edgar Allan Poe
Ophélie (“Ophelia”) and Antico (“Ancient”) by Arthur Rimbaud
"Song of the Witches" from Macbeth by William Shakespeare
The Bustle in a House and Because I Could Not Stop for Death by Emily Dickinson
The Stolen Child by William Butler Yeats
The Broken Tower by Hart Crane
Ozymandias by Percy Bysshe Shelley
Allayne by Kevin N. Roberts
The Snow Man by Wallace Stevens
A Last Word by Ernest Dowson
La Belle Dame sans Merci by John Keats
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner and Christabel by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
The Listeners by Walter de la Mare
Luke Havergal and The Mill by Edward Arlington Robinson
The Unreturning by Wilfred Owen
Her Kind by Anne Sexton and Daddy by Sylvia Plath (a tie between friends)
The Darkling Thrush by Thomas Hardy
The Vampire by Conrad Aiken
The Fisher by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Du by Janet Kenny
Part 6 from The Dark Side of the Deity: Interlude by Joe M. Ruggier
Haunted Houses by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Poems by Anne Carson

Poet Anne Carson

Father's Old Blue Cardigan

by Anne Carson

Now it hangs on the back of the kitchen chair

where I always sit, as it did

on the back of the kitchen chair where he always sat.

I put it on whenever I come in,

as he did, stamping

the snow from his boots.

I put it on and sit in the dark.

He would not have done this.

Coldness comes paring down from the moonbone in the sky.

His laws were a secret.

But I remember the moment at which I knew

he was going mad inside his laws.

He was standing at the turn of the driveway when I arrived.

He had on the blue cardigan with the buttons done up all the way to the top.

Not only because it was a hot July afternoon

but the look on his face --

as a small child who has been dressed by some aunt early in the morning

for a long trip

on cold trains and windy platforms

will sit very straight at the edge of his seat

while the shadows like long fingers

over the haystacks that sweep past

keep shocking him

because he is riding backwards.

Copyright © 2000 by Anne Carson

O Small Sad Ecstasy of Love

by Anne Carson

I like being with you all night with closed eyes.

What luck—here you are

coming

along the stars!

I did a road trip

all over my mind and heart

and

there you were

kneeling by the roadside

with your little toolkit

fixing something.

Give me a world, you have taken the world I was.

Copyright © 2020 by Anne Carson.

Originally published in Poem-a-Day

on December 10, 2020,

by the Academy of American Poets

Apostle Town

by Anne Carson

After your death.

It was windy every day.

Every day.

Opposed us like a wall.

We went.

Shouting sideways at one another.

Along the road.

It was useless.

The spaces between us.

Got hard.

They are empty spaces.

And yet they are solid.

And black and grievous.

As gaps between the teeth.

Of an old woman.

You knew years ago.

When she was.

Beautiful the nerves pouring around in her like palace fire.

Anne Carson Saturday

October 15, 2016

Anne Carson Bio

https://www.bbc.com/news/articles/cq4g1j54nepyo

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/anne-carson

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anne_Carson

Anne Carson is a Canadian poet, essayist, and classicist known for blending ancient mythology with modern forms. Her most popular poems, verse novels, and lyric collections include:

Major Verse Novels and Long Poems

Autobiography of Red (1998): A celebrated novel in verse that retells the fragmentary myth of Geryon and Heracles by Stesichorus, reimagining the winged monster as a modern gay teenager.

The Beauty of the Husband: A Fictional Essay in 29 Tangos (2001): A narrative poem in 29 sections exploring the anatomy of a failed marriage, which won the T.S. Eliot Prize. 

The Glass Essay (1995): A long, semi-autobiographical lyric poem from Plainwater that confronts grief, a broken relationship, and the haunting presence of Emily Brontë on a northern moor.

Standout Short Poems and Lyrical Works

"Father's Old Blue Cardigan": A poignant, sharply observed reflection on her father's memory and mental decline.

"O Small Sad Ecstasy of Love": A compact, striking lyric on the fragile and disorienting nature of falling in love.

"Apostle Town": Opening with the famous lines, "After your death. It was windy every day. Every day. Opposed us like a wall".

Glass, Irony, and God (1992): A collection containing seminal short talks and verse pieces that established her distinct voice.

Other poems. Listed on PoemHunter.com

R.E. Slater - An Autumn Day

An Autumn Day

by R.E. Slater

Beneath a bright blue sky and warming sun

greets happy breezes hurrying and scurrying

across leafy realms in lively crackle and flutter.

Fat ground squirrels are restlessly heard

scampering about with nut and acorn

digging in their wares within an endless

cacophony of buzzing insects beating

time to the pulse of the earth enlarged

its tapestry of sound in measured hum.

O'erhead leafy bowers rustle and turn
spreading their golden hues and glows
in painted ambers, russets, and golds.

The autumn airs fill the churning woods

in dancing drops of burnished fire

fluttering down to become instant

homes for fuzzy woolly bears

seeking winter warmth and shelter.

And I, resting from day's labor,

nestle within my spinning expanse,

hearing the ancient songs of youth.

Embraced within enchanting spells

brimming a Northland's ancient climes

and waking dream unwilling slumber

content upon a day's gracious warrant

to be renewed and enlivened before

the coming winter snows drawing near.

R.E. Slater

October 7, 2026
@copyright R.E. Slater Publications
all rights reserved

Nothing Gold Can Stay

by Robert Frost

Nature's first green is gold,

Her hardest hue to hold.

Her early leaf's a flower;

But only so an hour.

Then leaf subsides to leaf.

So Eden sank to grief,

So dawn goes down to day.

Nothing gold can stay.

Fall, Leaves, Fall

by Emily Brontë

Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away;

Lengthen night and shorten day;

Every leaf speaks bliss to me

Fluttering from the autumn tree.

I shall smile when wreaths of snow

Blossom where the rose should grow;

I shall sing when night's decay

Ushers in a drearier day.

Autumn

T. E. Hulme

A touch of cold in the Autumn night -

I walked abroad,

And saw the ruddy moon lean over a hedge

Like a red-faced farmer.

I did not stop to speak, but nodded,

And round about were the wistful stars

With white faces like town children.

October

by Robert Frost

O hushed October morning mild,

Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;

Tomorrow's wind, if it be wild,

Should waste them all.

Three Autumn Haiku

Matsuo Bashō

Autumn moonlight -
a worm digs silently
into the chestnut.

Yosa Buson

Light of the moon

moves westward, shadows of flowers

creep eastward.

Kobayashi Issa

Yellow autumn leaves
tumbling down...
a deer calls its mate.

A Note for an Autumn Day

Perhaps that is what autumn gives us each year: not merely color, but a reminder. The leaves become most brilliant just before they fall. The days grow precious because they shorten. What was green becomes gold, what was gold returns to earth, and what appears to be an ending quietly prepares the way for another beginning. For a little while, then, we walk beneath the trees. And pay attention.

R.E. Slater

October 7, 2026

The Odyssey

LINK -

THE WORLD BEHIND HOMER

https://reslater.blogspot.com/2026/03/memory-myth-and-world-behind-homer.html

~~  I created this post several months ahead of the film debut to

help guide those unfamiliar with the Iliad and Odyssey  ~~

Below the first several poems can be found the history

and background of Greece's ancient legends.

R.E. Slater

Mary Oliver - Fall Poems

 

Fall Song

by Mary Oliver

Another year gone, leaving everywhere

its rich spiced residues: vines, leaves,

the uneaten fruits crumbling damply

in the shadows, unmattering back

from the particular island

of this summer, this NOW, that now is nowhere

except underfoot, moldering

in that black subterranean castle

of unobservable mysteries – roots and sealed seeds

and the wanderings of water. This

I try to remember when time’s measure

painfully chafes, for instance when autumn

flares out at the last, boisterous and like us longing

to stay – how everything lives, shifting

from one bright vision to another, forever

in these momentary pastures.

Fall

by Mary Oliver

the black oaks

fling their bronze fruit

into all the pockets of the earth

pock pock

they knock against the thresholds

the roof the sidewalk

fill the eaves

the bottom line

of the old gold song

of the almost finished year

what is spring all that tender

green stuff

compared to this 

falling of tiny oak trees

out of the oak trees

then the clouds

gathering thick along the west

then advancing

then closing over

breaking open

the silence

then the rain

dashing its silver seeds

against the house

* * * * * * *

* * * * * * *

* * * * * * *

Poet Mary Oliver

Biography of Mary Oliver

by Poetry Foundation

Mary Oliver was an “indefatigable guide to the natural world,” wrote Maxine Kumin in the Women’s Review of Books, “particularly to its lesser-known aspects.” Oliver’s poetry focused on the quiet of occurrences of nature: industrious hummingbirds, egrets, motionless ponds, “lean owls / hunkering with their lamp-eyes.” Kumin also noted that Oliver “stands quite comfortably on the margins of things, on the line between earth and sky, the thin membrane that separates human from what we loosely call animal.” Oliver’s poetry won numerous awards, including the Pulitzer Prize, the National Book Award and a Lannan Literary Award for lifetime achievement. Reviewing Dream Work (1986) for the Nation, critic Alicia Ostriker numbered Oliver among America’s finest poets, as “visionary as [Ralph Waldo] Emerson.”

Mary Oliver was born and raised in Maple Hills Heights, a suburb of Cleveland, Ohio. She would retreat from a difficult home to the nearby woods, where she would build huts of sticks and grass and write poems. She attended both Ohio State University and Vassar College, but did not receive a degree from either institution. As a young poet, Oliver was deeply influenced by Edna St. Vincent Millay and briefly lived in Millay’s home, helping Norma Millay organize her sister’s papers. Oliver is notoriously reticent about her private life, but it was during this period that she met her long-time partner, Molly Malone Cook. The couple moved to Provincetown, Massachusetts, and the surrounding Cape Cod landscape has had a marked influence on Oliver’s work. Known for its clear and poignant observations and evocative use of the natural world, Oliver’s poetry is firmly rooted in place and the Romantic nature tradition. Her work received early critical attention; American Primitive (1983), her fifth book, won the Pulitzer Prize. According to Bruce Bennetin the New York Times Book Review, American Primitive, “insists on the primacy of the physical.” Bennet commended Oliver’s “distinctive voice and vision” and asserted that the “collection contains a number of powerful, substantial works.” Holly Prado of the Los Angeles Times Book Review also applauded Oliver’s original voice, writing that American Primitive “touches a vitality in the familiar that invests it with a fresh intensity.”

Dream Work (1986) continues Oliver’s search to “understand both the wonder and pain of nature” according to Prado in a later review for the Los Angeles Times Book Review. Ostriker considered Oliver “among the few American poets who can describe and transmit ecstasy, while retaining a practical awareness of the world as one of predators and prey.” For Ostriker, Dream Work is ultimately a volume in which Oliver moves “from the natural world and its desires, the ‘heaven of appetite’ ... into the world of historical and personal suffering. ... She confronts as well, steadily,” Ostriker continued, “what she cannot change.”

The transition from engaging the natural world to engaging more personal realms was also evident in New and Selected Poems (1992), which won the National Book Award. The volume contains poems from eight of Oliver’s previous volumes as well as previously unpublished, newer work. Susan Salter Reynolds, in the Los Angeles Times Book Review, noticed that Oliver’s earliest poems were almost always oriented toward nature, but they seldom examined the self and were almost never personal. In contrast, Oliver appeared constantly in her later works. But as Reynolds noted “this self-consciousness is a rich and graceful addition.” Just as the contributor for Publishers Weekly called particular attention to the pervasive tone of amazement with regard to things seen in Oliver’s work, Reynolds found Oliver’s writings to have a “Blake-eyed revelatory quality.” Oliver summed up her desire for amazement in her poem “When Death Comes” from New and Selected Poems: “When it’s over, I want to say: all my life / I was a bride married to amazement. / I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.”

Oliver continued her celebration of the natural world in her next collections, including Winter Hours: Prose, Prose Poems, and Poems (1999), Why I Wake Early (2004), New and Selected Poems, Volume 2 (2004), and Swan: Poems and Prose Poems (2010). Critics have compared Oliver to other great American lyric poets and celebrators of nature, including Marianne Moore, Elizabeth Bishop, Edna St. Vincent Millay, and Walt Whitman. “Oliver’s poetry,” wrote Poetry magazine contributor Richard Tillinghast in a review of White Pine (1994) “floats above and around the schools and controversies of contemporary American poetry. Her familiarity with the natural world has an uncomplicated, nineteenth-century feeling.” 

A prolific writer of both poetry and prose, Oliver routinely published a new book every year or two. Her main themes continue to be the intersection between the human and the natural world, as well as the limits of human consciousness and language in articulating such a meeting. Jeanette McNew in Contemporary Literature described “Oliver’s visionary goal,” as “constructing a subjectivity that does not depend on separation from a world of objects. Instead, she respectfully conferred subjecthood on nature, thereby modeling a kind of identity that does not depend on opposition for definition. … At its most intense, her poetry aims to peer beneath the constructions of culture and reason that burden us with an alienated consciousness to celebrate the primitive, mystical visions that reveal ‘a mossy darkness – / a dream that would never breathe air / and was hinged to your wildest joy / like a shadow.’” Her last books included A Thousand Mornings (2012), Dog Songs (2013), Blue Horses (2014), Felicity (2015), Upstream: Selected Essays (2016), and Devotions: The Selected Poems of Mary Oliver (2017).

Mary Oliver held the Catharine Osgood Foster Chair for Distinguished Teaching at Bennington College until 2001. In addition to such major awards as the Pulitzer and National Book Award, Oliver  received fellowships from the Guggenheim Foundation and the National Endowment for the Arts. She also won the American Academy of Arts & Letters Award, the Poetry Society of America’s Shelley Memorial Prize and Alice Fay di Castagnola Award.

Oliver lived in Provincetown, Massachusetts, and Hobe Sound, Florida, until her death in early 2019. She was 83.