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Ina Donna Coolbrith (born Josephine Donna Smith; March 10, 1841 – February 29, 1928) was an American poet, writer, librarian, and a prominent figure in the San Francisco Bay Area literary community. Called the "Sweet Singer of California", [1] she was the first California Poet Laureate and the first poet laureate of any American state.
Ina Coolbrith. 1842–1928. Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons. Editor and poet Ina Coolbrith was born Josephine Smith to Mormon parents in Nauvoo, Illinois. Her uncle, Joseph Smith, was the founder of the Mormon Church. Her father died when Coolbrith was an infant, and her mother subsequently left the church and remarried.
23 de abr. de 2024 · Ina Donna Coolbrith (born March 10, 1841, Nauvoo, Ill., U.S.—died Feb. 29, 1928, Berkeley, Calif.) was a popular American poet of moderate talent who nonetheless became a major figure in literary and cultural circles of 19th- and early 20th-century San Francisco.
- The Editors of Encyclopaedia Britannica
California Library Hall of Fame. Ina Coolbirth ( 1841-1928) Ina Coolbrith was born Josephine Donna Smith in Nauvoo, Illinois, niece to Mormon prophet Joseph Smith. When she was ten years old, her family moved to California in a wagon train led by African-American scout Jim Beckwourth.
18 de mar. de 2021 · Ina Donna Coolbrith, born Josephine Donna Smith on March 10, 1841, in Nauvoo, Illinois, was an important figure in the literary community of 19th- and early 20th-century San Francisco. She served as the first poet laureate of California from 1915 until her death on February 29, 1928, in Berkeley, California.
Stoddard, and Ina Coolbrith. The critical point here is that, in 1864, Twain most likely met Coolbrith, the only female writer of the group, and became sufficiently interested in her to investigate and learn that she was the niece of
29 de jun. de 2023 · Ina Coolbrith. After the winter rain, Sing, robin! Sing, swallow! Grasses are in the lane, Buds and flowers will follow. Woods shall ring, blithe and gay, With bird-trill and twitter, Though the skies weep to-day, And the winds are bitter. Though deep call unto deep. As calls the thunder, And white the billows leap. The tempest under;
