The New Poetry: An Anthology

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Harriet Monroe, Alice Corbin Henderson
Macmillan, 1920 - 407 pagine
 

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Pagina 323 - Complacencies of the peignoir, and late Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair, And the green freedom of a cockatoo Upon a rug mingle to dissipate The holy hush of ancient sacrifice.
Pagina 150 - I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree. A tree whose hungry mouth is prest Against the earth's sweet flowing breast; A tree that looks at God all day, And lifts her leafy arms to pray; A tree that may in summer wear A nest of robins in her hair; Upon whose bosom snow has lain; Who intimately lives with rain. Poems are made by fools like me, But only God can make a tree.
Pagina 329 - There comes the morning with the golden basket in her right hand bearing the wreath of beauty, silently to crown the earth. And there comes the evening over the lonely meadows deserted by herds, through trackless paths, carrying cool draughts of peace in her golden pitcher from the western ocean of rest.
Pagina 214 - Out of me unworthy and unknown The vibrations of deathless music; "With malice toward none, with charity for all." Out of me the forgiveness of millions toward millions, And the beneficent face of a nation Shining with justice and truth. I am Anne Rutledge who sleep beneath these weeds, Beloved in life of Abraham Lincoln, Wedded to him, not through union, But through separation. Bloom forever, O Republic, From the dust of my bosom!
Pagina 324 - But in contentment I still feel The need of some imperishable bliss." Death is the mother of beauty; hence from her, Alone, shall come fulfilment to our dreams And our desires. Although she strews the leaves...
Pagina 66 - 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.
Pagina 323 - She hears, upon that water without sound, A voice that cries, "The tomb in Palestine Is not the porch of spirits lingering. It is the grave of Jesus, where he lay.
Pagina 322 - Beauty is momentary in the mind — The fitful tracing of a portal; But in the flesh it is immortal.
Pagina 273 - At sixteen you departed, You went into far Ku-to-yen, by the river of swirling eddies, And you have been gone five months. The monkeys make sorrowful noise overhead.
Pagina 169 - With a silk umbrella and the handle of a broom, Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, BOOM. Then I had religion, then I had a vision, I could not turn from their revel in derision. Then I saw the Congo, creeping through the black, Cutting through the forest with a golden track.

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