Oregon Literature

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1809 - American literature - 104 pages
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Not 1809
Would Google library please let readers intervene to fix thes all-too-frequent errors.

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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 38 - In men whom men pronounce divine I find so much of sin and blot, I hesitate to draw a line Between the two, where God has not.
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!
Page 67 - The bravest battle that ever was fought, shall I tell you where and when? On the maps of the world you will find it not; 'twas fought by the mothers of men.

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