Modern American Poetry: A Critical Anthology

Εξώφυλλο
Louis Untermeyer
Harcourt, Brace, 1925 - 621 σελίδες
 

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Σελίδα 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.
Σελίδα 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.
Σελίδα 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.
Σελίδα 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.
Σελίδα 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!
Σελίδα 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.
Σελίδα 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.
Σελίδα 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.
Σελίδα 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.
Σελίδα 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,...

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