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ABIGAIL SCOTT DUNIWAY ages American angels Banks battle Beautiful Willamette Bethel college Bible bright chum Bub Karaboo climate clouds Corvallis death Delazon Smith Duniway East Eastern echo eternal feel forever friends genius gentle gold golden heart heaven hence Higginson Hines Homer Davenport Hood hundred immortal Indian influence inspiring intellectual James O'Meara Jason Lee Joaquin Miller John Minto land Let him sleep light literary lives ment mighty miles Minnie Myrtle Miller Mount Hood mountain nation nature night ocean old songs oration Oregon City Oregon pioneer Oregonian Pacific Passover patriotic plains poem poet poetic poetry pulpit rain rivers scenery seek sentiment shores silent sing soul spirit stand streams sung sweet Oregon talent Thomas Condon thou thought tions United States Senator vales valley visions West Western Oregon wild women writ write
Page 6 - The charming landscape which I saw this morning is indubitably made up of some twenty or thirty farms. Miller owns this field, Locke that, and Manning the woodland beyond. But none of them owns the landscape. There is a property in the horizon which no man has but he whose eye can integrate all the parts, that is, the poet.
Page 60 - I have seen them give her ashes to the winds, regathering them again that they might scatter them yet more widely: but, when they turned to exult, I have seen her again meet them face to face, resplendent in complete steel and brandishing in her strong right hand a flaming sword, red with insufferable light.
Page 62 - I too am a wave on a stormy sea; I too am a wanderer, driven like thee; I too am seeking a distant land To be lost and gone ere I reach the strand; For the land I seek is a waveless shore, And they who once reach it shall wander no more.
Page 12 - From the Cascades' frozen gorges, Leaping like a child at play, Winding, widening through the valley, Bright Willamette glides away; Onward ever, Lovely River, Softly calling to the sea, Time, that scars us, Maims and mars us, Leaves no track or trench on thee.
Page 89 - The gold that with the sunlight lies In bursting heaps at dawn, The silver spilling from the skies At night to walk upon, The diamonds gleaming in the dew He never saw, he never knew. He got some gold, dug from the mud, Some silver, crushed from stones. The gold was red with dead men's blood, The silver black with groans ; And when he died he moaned aloud, " There '11 be no pocket in my shroud.
Page 62 - It were vain to ask, as thou rollest afar, Of banner, or mariner, ship, or star; It were vain to seek in thy stormy face Some tale of the sorrowful past to trace. Thou art swelling high, thou art flashing free, How vain are the questions we ask of thee!