From Whitman to Sandburg in American Poetry: A Critical Survey

Cover
Macmillan, 1924 - 245 Seiten
0 Rezensionen
Rezensionen werden nicht überprüft, Google sucht jedoch gezielt nach gefälschten Inhalten und entfernt diese
 

Was andere dazu sagen - Rezension schreiben

Es wurden keine Rezensionen gefunden.

Andere Ausgaben - Alle anzeigen

Häufige Begriffe und Wortgruppen

Beliebte Passagen

Seite 108 - I FLED Him, down the nights and down the days; I fled Him, down the arches of the years; I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways Of my own mind; and in the mist of tears I hid from Him, and under running laughter. Up vistaed hopes, I sped; And shot, precipitated, Adown Titanic glooms of chasmed fears, From those strong Feet that followed, followed after. But with unhurrying chase, And unperturbed pace, Deliberate speed, majestic instancy, They beat, — and a Voice beat More instant than the Feet:...
Seite 3 - Of physiology from top to toe I sing: Not physiognomy alone nor brain alone is worthy for the Muse; I say the Form complete is worthier far. The Female equally with the Male I sing. 5 Of Life immense in passion, pulse, and power, Cheerful, for freest action form'd under the laws divine, The Modern Man I sing.
Seite 24 - Come lovely and soothing death, Undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriving, In the day, in the night, to all, to each, Sooner or later delicate death.
Seite 29 - RECONCILIATION WORD over all, beautiful as the sky, Beautiful that war and all its deeds of carnage must in time be utterly lost...
Seite 107 - I have forgot much, Cynara! gone with the wind, Flung roses, roses riotously with the throng, Dancing, to put thy pale, lost lilies out of mind; But I was desolate and sick of an old passion, Yea, all the time, because the dance was long: I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion. I cried for madder music and for stronger wine, But when the feast is finished and the lamps expire, Then falls thy shadow, Cynara! the night is thine; And I am desolate and sick of an old passion, Yea hungry...
Seite 182 - And spread her apron to it. She put out her hand Among the harp-like morning-glory strings, Taut with the dew from garden bed to eaves, As if she played unheard some tenderness That wrought on him beside her in the night. "Warren," she said, "he has come home to die: You needn't be afraid he'll leave you this time.
Seite 161 - Too deep to clear them away! The leaves fall early this autumn, in wind. The paired butterflies are already yellow with August Over the grass in the west garden — They hurt me.
Seite 24 - I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun, I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags. I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love, If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.
Seite 29 - Who are you elderly man so gaunt and grim, with well-gray'd hair, and flesh all sunken about the eyes? Who are you my dear comrade? Then to the second I step— and who are you my child and darling? Who are you sweet boy with cheeks yet blooming? Then to the third— a face nor child nor old, very calm, as of beautiful yellow-white ivory; Young man I think I know you— I think this face is the face of the Christ himself, Dead and divine and brother of all, and here again he lies.
Seite 173 - We were very tired, we were very merry We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.

Bibliografische Informationen