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Page 497 - THERE was a child went forth every day, And the first object he look'd upon, that object he became, And that object became part of him for the day or a certain part of the day, Or for many years or stretching cycles of years.
Page 498 - The hurrying tumbling waves, quick-broken crests, slapping, The strata of color'd clouds, the long bar of maroon-tint away solitary by itself, the spread of purity it lies motionless in, The horizon's edge, the flying sea-crow, the fragrance of salt marsh and shore mud, These became part of that child who went forth every day, and who now goes, and will always go forth every day.
Page 467 - But glory an' gunpowder, plunder an' blood ? So John P. Robinson he Scz he shall vote fer Gineral C. We were gittin' on nicely up here to our village, With good old idees o' wut 's right an' wut ain't, We kind o' thought Christ went agin war an' pillage, An' thet eppyletts worn't the best mark of a saint ; But John P. Robinson he Sez this kind o
Page 499 - From this hour I ordain myself loos'd of limits and imaginary lines, Going where I list, my own master total and absolute, Listening to others, considering well what they say, Pausing, searching, receiving, contemplating, Gently, but with undeniable will, divesting myself of the holds that would hold me.
Page 501 - Here at last is something in the doings of man That corresponds with the broadcast doings of the day and night. Here is not merely a nation but a teeming nation of nations.
Page 56 - Few, few were they whose swords of old Won the fair land in which we dwell ; But we are many, we who hold The grim resolve to guard it well. Strike for that broad and goodly land, Blow after blow, till men shall see That Might and Right move hand in hand, And glorious must their triumph be.
Page 330 - I would rather sit on a pumpkin and have it all to myself, than be crowded on a velvet cushion.
Page 493 - Grass" distinctively as literature, or a specimen thereof, that I feel to dwell, or advance claims. No one will get at my verses who insists upon viewing them as a literary performance, or attempt at such performance, or as aiming mainly toward art or zstheticism.
Page 56 - Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again; The eternal years of God are hers; But Error, wounded, writhes in pain, And dies among his worshippers.
Page 214 - I would define, in brief, the poetry of words as the rhythmical creation of beauty. Its sole arbiter is taste. With the intellect or with the conscience, it has only collateral relations. Unless incidentally, it has no concern whatever either with duty or with truth.