Modern American Poetry: A Critical AnthologyLouis Untermeyer Harcourt, Brace, 1925 - 621 стор. |
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Сторінка 7
... never so much a celebration of himself as a glorification of the ordinary man , " the divine average . " It was this breadth , this jubilant acceptance , that made Whitman so keen a lover of casual and ordinary things ; he was the first ...
... never so much a celebration of himself as a glorification of the ordinary man , " the divine average . " It was this breadth , this jubilant acceptance , that made Whitman so keen a lover of casual and ordinary things ; he was the first ...
Сторінка 14
... never before had read verse , turned to it and found they could not only read but relish it . They discovered that for the enjoyment of poetry it was not necessary to have at their elbows a dictionary of rare words and classical ...
... never before had read verse , turned to it and found they could not only read but relish it . They discovered that for the enjoyment of poetry it was not necessary to have at their elbows a dictionary of rare words and classical ...
Сторінка 16
... never a poetic provincial - never parochial in the sense of America still being a literary parish of England . Frost is as native as the lonely farmhouses , the dusty blueberries , the isolated people , the dried - up brooks and ...
... never a poetic provincial - never parochial in the sense of America still being a literary parish of England . Frost is as native as the lonely farmhouses , the dusty blueberries , the isolated people , the dried - up brooks and ...
Сторінка 20
... never blurred or indefinite . 6. Finally , most of us believe that concentration is the very essence of poetry . It does not seem possible that these six obvious and almost platitudinous principles , which , incidentally , the Imagists ...
... never blurred or indefinite . 6. Finally , most of us believe that concentration is the very essence of poetry . It does not seem possible that these six obvious and almost platitudinous principles , which , incidentally , the Imagists ...
Сторінка 35
... never saw a moor , I never saw the sea ; Yet now I know how the heather looks , And what a wave must be . I never spoke with God , Nor visited in Heaven ; Yet certain am I of the spot As if the chart were given . INDIAN SUMMER These are ...
... never saw a moor , I never saw the sea ; Yet now I know how the heather looks , And what a wave must be . I never spoke with God , Nor visited in Heaven ; Yet certain am I of the spot As if the chart were given . INDIAN SUMMER These are ...
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Сторінка 48 - But the hands that were played By that heathen Chinee, And the points that he made, Were quite frightful to see, — Till at last he put down a right bower, Which the same Nye had dealt unto me. Then I looked up at Nye, And he gazed upon me ; And he rose with a sigh, And said, " Can this be? We are ruined by Chinese cheap labour," — And he went for that heathen Chinee.
Сторінка 59 - The dewberry dipped for to work delay, And the little reeds sighed Abide, abide, Here in the hills of Habersham, Here in the valleys of Hall.
Сторінка 225 - I'd like to get away from earth awhile And then come back to it and begin over. May no fate willfully misunderstand me And half grant what I wish and snatch me away Not to return. Earth's the right place for love: I don't know where it's likely to go better.
Сторінка 221 - He thinks if he could teach him that, he'd be Some good perhaps to someone in the world. He hates to see a boy the fool of books. Poor Silas, so concerned for other folk, And nothing to look backward to with pride, And nothing to look forward to with hope, So now and never any different.
Сторінка 77 - OUTWITTED He drew a circle that shut me out — Heretic, rebel, a thing to flout. But Love and I had the wit to win: We drew a circle that took him in!
Сторінка 394 - OREAD Whirl up, sea — Whirl your pointed pines. Splash your great pines On our rocks. Hurl your green over us — Cover us with your pools of fir.
Сторінка 262 - The lost, that in armies wept over your funeral pall? They call on the names of a hundred high-valiant ones, A hundred white eagles have risen the sons of your sons, The zeal in their wings is a zeal that your dreaming began The valor that wore out your soul in the service of man.
Сторінка 228 - Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow.
Сторінка 213 - I'm going out to clean the pasture spring; I'll only stop to rake the leaves away (And wait to watch the water clear, I may): I shan't be gone long.— You come too.
Сторінка 272 - It is portentous, and a thing of state That here at midnight, in our little town A mourning figure walks, and will not rest, Near the old courthouse pacing up and down, Or by his homestead, or in shadowed yards He lingers where his children used to play, Or through the market, on the well-worn stones, He stalks until the dawn-stars burn away. A bronzed, lank man! His suit of ancient black, A famous high top-hat and plain, worn shawl Make him the quaint great figure that men love, The prairie lawyer,...