Grenstone Poems: A Sequence

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Frederick A. Stokes, 1917 - American poetry - 16 pages
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Page 19 - When he was shot. I can tell you, sir, there was a panic When we found our President was in the shape he was in! Never saw a soldier in the world but what liked him. "Yes, sir. His looks was kind o' hard to forget. He was a spare man, An old farmer. Everything was all right, you know, But he wasn'ta smooth-appearin' man at all — Not in no ways; Thin-faced, long-necked, And a swellin
Page 119 - Though mine I never quite discern, I trace her every day. She has a thousand presences, As surely seen and heard As birds that hide behind a leaf Or leaves that hide a bird. Single your love, you lose your love, You cloak her face with day; Now mine I never quite discern — And never look away.
Page 194 - A MOCKING-BIRD AN arrow, feathery, alive, He darts and sings, — Then with a sudden skimming dive Of striped wings He finds a pine and, debonair, Makes with his mate All birds that ever rested there Articulate. The whisper of a multitude Of happy wings Is round him, a returning brood, Each time he sings. Though heaven be not for them or him Yet he is wise, And daily tiptoes on the rim Of paradise.
Page 254 - GOD'S ACRE Because we felt there could not be A mowing in reality So white and feathery-blown and gay With blossoms of wild caraway, I said to Celia, "Let us trace The secret of this pleasant place!" We knew some deeper beauty lay Below the bloom of caraway, And when we bent the white aside We came to paupers who had died : Rough wooden shingles row on row And God's name written there — John Doe.
Page 18 - Washington — We was all green. "I ain't never ben to the theayter in my life — I didn't know how to behave. I ain't never ben since. I can see as plain as my hat the box where he sat in When he was shot. I can tell you, sir, there was a panic When we found our President was in the shape he was in ! Never saw a soldier in the world but what liked him. "Yes, sir. His looks was kind o
Page 5 - Name me no names for my disease, With uninforming breath; I tell you I am none of these, But homesick unto death — Homesick for hills that I had known, For brooks that I had crossed, Before I met this flesh and bone And followed and was lost . . . Save that they broke my heart at last, Name me no name of ills. Say only, " Here is where he passed, Seeking again those hills.
Page 38 - But upon the oval lake In a bent and ghostly line Lean and drink for better sleeping. . . . Then they turn again and — creeping Gliding as with fur and fins — Disappear through woods and water On a thousand moccasins.
Page 112 - PERHAPS they laughed at Dante in his youth, Told him that truth Had unappealably been said In the great masterpieces of the dead. Perhaps he listened and but bowed his head In acquiescent honor, while his heart Held natal tidings that a new life is the part Of every man that's born, A new life and a new expectant art.
Page 234 - THE MYSTIC BY seven vineyards on one hill We walked. The native wine In clusters grew beside us two, For your lips and for mine, When, "Hark!" you said,— "Was that a bell Or a bubbling spring we heard?" But I was wise and closed my eyes And listened to a bird; For as summer leaves are bent and shake With singers passing through, So moves in me continually The winged breath of you. You tasted from a single vine And took from that your fill — But I inclined to every kind, All seven on one hill.
Page 36 - Then pirouette from tree to rail And vault from rail to nest. And when in frequent, witty fright You grayly slip and fade, And when at hand you re-alight Demure and unafraid, And when you bring your brood its fill Of iridescent wings And green legs dewy in your bill, Your silence is what sings. Not of a...

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