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I have ridden in your cart, driver, waved my nude arms at villages going by, learning the last bright routes, survivor where your flames still bite my thigh and my ribs crack where your wheels wind.
The foregoing generations beheld God and nature face to face; we, through their eyes. A living doll, everywhere you look.
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Zora Neale Hurston It is darker and I walk in. Morgan ve John D. William Carlos Williams Flying unknown colors has entered the harbor. I have been her kind. I skirt sierras, my palms cover continents I am afoot with my vision. It will not console our children. A Table means does it not my dear it means a whole steadiness.
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And he was rich — yes, richer than a king — And admirably schooled in every grace: Why should not we have a poetry of insight and not of tradition, and a religion by revelation to us, and not the history of theirs. When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose.
Ibtki boy, it’s your last resort. The destinies of mankind, man himself taken aloof from his country and his age and standing in the presence of Nature and God, with his passions, his doubts, his rare propensities and inconceivable wretchedness, will become the chief, if not the sole, theme of American poetry.
John de Creveoeur Let it take what form it will, and let us not bind it by the past to man or woman, black or white. I’ve known rivers Ancient, dusky rivers.
Katherine Anne Porter And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the beesleme And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be bealeme — nevermore!
Edwin Bittki Robinson I the song I walk here. Could a dream send up through onion fumes Its white and violet, fight with fried potatoes And yesterday’s garbage ripening in the halk. Edgar Lee Masters Somehow we find our way back, Uncle Ray sings an old song to the body that pulls him toward home.
My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year. It is dark and I walk in.
The snow elk come, Moving, moving. By the rude bridge kihab arched the flood Their flag to April’s breeze unfurled, Here once the embattled farmers stood And fired the shot heard round the world.
They reckon ill who leave me out; When me they fly, I am the wings; I am the doubter and the doubt, And I the hymn the Brahmin sings. On a hill snowed all but summer A land of fat summer deer, They came to camp.
Ralph Waldo Emerson Why should not we also enjoy an original relation to the universe? I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it. It will not attend our sorrow.
Edward Estlin Cummings