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2018-02-27 03:36:44 |
One Song, America, Before I Go poem |
ONE song, America, before I go, I'd sing, o'er all the rest, with trumpet sound, For thee--the Future. I'd sow a seed for thee of endless Nationality; I'd fashion thy Ensemble, including Body and Soul; I'd show, away ahead, thy real Union, and how it may be accomplish'd. (The paths to the House I seek to make, But leave to those to come, the House itself.) Belief I sing--and Preparation; As Life and Nature are not great with reference to the Present only, 10 But greater still from what is yet to come, Out of that formula for Thee I sing. |
Walt Whitman |
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2018-02-27 03:36:49 |
Long, Too Long America poem |
Long, too long America, Traveling roads all even and peaceful you learn'd from joys and prosperity only, But now, ah now, to learn from crises of anguish, advancing, grappling with direst fate and recoiling not, And now to conceive and show to the world what your children en-masse really are, (For who except myself has yet conceiv'd what your children en-masse really are?) |
Walt Whitman |
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2018-02-27 03:36:52 |
America poem |
America, you ode for reality!Give back the people you took.Let the sun shine againon the four corners of the worldyou thought of first but do notown, or keep like a convenience.People are your own word, youinvented that locus and term.Here, you said and say, iswhere we are. Give backwhat we are, these people you made,us, and nowhere but you to be. |
Robert Creeley |
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2018-02-27 03:36:54 |
The Greatest Thing In North America poem |
This is the greatest thing in North America:Europe is the greatest thing in North America!High in the sky, dark in the heart, and always thereAmong the natural powers of sunlight and of air,Changing, second by second, shifting and changing the light,Bring fresh rain to the stone of the library steps.Under the famous names upon the pediment: Thales, Aristotle,Cicero, Augustine, Scotus, Galileo,Joseph, Odysseus, Hamlet, Columbus and Spinoza,Anna Karenina, Alyosha Karamazov, Sherlock Holmes.And the last three also live upon the silver screenThree blocks away, in moonlight's artificial day,A double bill in the darkened palace whirled,And the veritable glittering light of the turning world'sBurning mind and blazing imagination, showing, day by dayAnd week after week the desires of the heart and mindOf all the living souls yearning everywhereFrom Canada to Panama, from Brooklyn to Paraguay,From Cuba to Vancouver, every afternoon and every night. |
Delmore Schwartz |
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2018-02-27 03:36:56 |
A Message To America poem |
You have the grit and the guts, I know; You are ready to answer blow for blow You are virile, combative, stubborn, hard, But your honor ends with your own back-yard; Each man intent on his private goal, You have no feeling for the whole; What singly none would tolerate You let unpunished hit the state, Unmindful that each man must share The stain he lets his country wear, And (what no traveller ignores) That her good name is often yours. You are proud in the pride that feels its might; From your imaginary height Men of another race or hue Are men of a lesser breed to you: The neighbor at your southern gate You treat with the scorn that has bred his hate. To lend a spice to your disrespect You call him the "greaser". But reflect! The greaser has spat on you more than once; He has handed you multiple affronts; He has robbed you, banished you, burned and killed; He has gone untrounced for the blood he spilled; He has jeering used for his bootblack's rag The stars and stripes of the gringo's flag; And you, in the depths of your easy-chair -- What did you do, what did you care? Did you find the season too cold and damp To change the counter for the camp? Were you frightened by fevers in Mexico? I can't imagine, but this I know -- You are impassioned vastly more By the news of the daily baseball score Than to hear that a dozen countrymen Have perished somewhere in Darien, That greasers have taken their innocent lives And robbed their holdings and raped their wives. Not by rough tongues and ready fists Can you hope to jilt in the modern lists. The armies of a littler folk Shall pass you under the victor's yoke, Sobeit a nation that trains her sons To ride their horses and point their guns -- Sobeit a people that comprehends The limit where private pleasure ends And where their public dues begin, A people made strong by discipline Who are willing to give -- what you've no mind to -- And understand -- what you are blind to -- The things that the individual Must sacrifice for the good of all. You have a leader who knows -- the man Most fit to be called American, A prophet that once in generations Is given to point to erring nations Brighter ideals toward which to press And lead them out of the wilderness. Will you turn your back on him once again? Will you give the tiller once more to men Who have made your country the laughing-stock For the older peoples to scorn and mock, Who would make you servile, despised, and weak, A country that turns the other cheek, Who care not how bravely your flag may float, Who answer an insult with a note, Whose way is the easy way in all, And, seeing that polished arms appal Their marrow of milk-fed pacifist, Would tell you menace does not exist? Are these, in the world's great parliament, The men you would choose to represent Your honor, your manhood, and your pride, And the virtues your fathers dignified? Oh, bury them deeper than the sea In universal obloquy; Forget the ground where they lie, or write For epitaph: "Too proud to fight." I have been too long from my country's shores To reckon what state of mind is yours, But as for myself I know right well I would go through fire and shot and shell And face new perils and make my bed In new privations, if ROOSEVELT led; But I have given my heart and hand To serve, in serving another land, Ideals kept bright that with you are dim; Here men can thrill to their country's hymn, For the passion that wells in the Marseillaise Is the same that fires the French these days, And, when the flag that they love goes by, With swelling bosom and moistened eye They can look, for they know that it floats there still By the might of their hands and the strength of their will, And through perils countless and trials unknown Its honor each man has made his own. They wanted the war no more than you, But they saw how the certain menace grew, And they gave two years of their youth or three The more to insure their liberty When the wrath of rifles and pennoned spears Should roll like a flood on their wrecked frontiers. They wanted the war no more than you, But when the dreadful summons blew And the time to settle the quarrel came They sprang to their guns, each man was game; And mark if they fight not to the last For their hearths, their altars, and their past: Yea, fight till their veins have been bled dry For love of the country that WILL not die. O friends, in your fortunate present ease (Yet faced by the self-same facts as these), If you would see how a race can soar That has no love, but no fear, of war, How each can turn from his private role That all may act as a perfect whole, How men can live up to the place they claim And a nation, jealous of its good name, Be true to its proud inheritance, Oh, look over here and learn from FRANCE! |
Alan Seeger |
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2018-02-27 03:37:00 |
America poem |
OH mother of a mighty race,Yet lovely in thy youthful grace!The elder dames, thy haughty peers,Admire and hate thy blooming years.With words of shame And taunts of scorn they join thy name.For on thy cheeks the glow is spreadThat tints thy morning hills with red;Thy step—the wild deer’s rustling feetWithin thy woods are not more fleet; Thy hopeful eyeIs bright as thine own sunny sky.Ay, let them rail—those haughty ones,While safe thou dwellest with thy sons.They do not know how loved thou art, How many a fond and fearless heartWould rise to throwIts life between thee and the foe.They know not, in their hate and pride,What virtues with thy children bide; How true, how good, thy graceful maidsMake bright, like flowers, the valley shades;What generous menSpring, like thine oaks, by hill and glen;—What cordial welcomes greet the guest By thy lone rivers of the West;How faith is kept, and truth revered,And man is loved, and God is feared,In woodland homes,And where the ocean border foams. There ’s freedom at thy gates and restFor Earth’s down-trodden and opprest,A shelter for the hunted head,For the starved laborer toil and bread.Power, at thy bounds, Stops and calls back his baffled hounds.Oh, fair young mother! on thy browShall sit a nobler grace than now.Deep in the brightness of the skiesThe thronging years in glory rise, And, as they fleet,Drop strength and riches at thy feet.Thine eye, with every coming hour,Shall brighten, and thy form shall tower;And when thy sisters, elder born, Would brand thy name with words of scorn,Before thine eye,Upon their lips the taunt shall die. |
William Cullen Bryant |
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2018-02-27 03:37:04 |
America poem |
Once in English they said America. Was it English to them.Once they said Belgian.We like a fog.Do you for weather.Are we brave.Are we true.Have we the national colour.Can we stand ditches.Can we mean well.Do we talk together.Have we red cross.A great many people speak of feet.And socks. |
Gertrude Stein |
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2018-02-27 03:37:07 |
' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' .. poem |
First one footthen gingerly the othersteps from the swivelchair to the table topwhere blindly you fiddle with the slatscaught - now - un-caught -still sleepyI turn to see younaked againstskyscrapers& mewing like a kittystuck up a tree.'Help ne... help medown! 'as the swivel chairspins around andaway.You look so goodI looktwicebefore takingyour nakednessin handlowering yougently to the ground& then ever moregently to the bed.You purrOutsideNew Yorkcontinues to beNew York.Times Square...Time Squares.The soundof kissesovercomingthe traffic'sroar.*******The Sheraton New York & Towers Hotel...midnight...Christmas Eve's eve.2009 |
Dónall Dempsey |
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2018-02-27 03:37:14 |
America poem |
America the beautiful, America the great, America suits us all, America I cannot hateAmerica we've come so far, America the free, If we wish upon a star, Then that wish shall be |
Olivia Taylor |
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2018-02-27 03:37:17 |
America Politica Historia, In Spontaneity poem |
O this political air so heavy with the bells and motors of a slow night, and no place to rest but rain to walk—How it rings the Washington streets! The umbrella’d congressmen; the rapping tires of big black cars, the shoulders of lobbyists caught under canopies and in doorways, and it rains, it will not let up, and meanwhile lame futurists weep into Spengler’s prophecy, will the world be over before the races blend color? All color must be one or let the world be done— There’ll be a chance, we’ll all be orange! I don’t want to be orange! Nothing about God’s color to complain; and there is a beauty in yellow, the old Lama in his robe the color of Cathay; in black a strong & vital beauty, Thelonious Monk in his robe of Norman charcoal— And if Western Civilization comes to an end (though I doubt it, for the prophet has not executed his prophecy) surely the Eastern child will sit by a window, and wonder the old statues, the ornamented doors; the decorated banquet of the West— Inflamed by futurists I too weep in rain at night at the midnight of Western Civilization; Dante’s step into Hell will never be forgotten by Hell; the Gods’ adoption of Homer will never be forgotten by the Gods; the books of France are on God’s bookshelf; no civil war will take place on the fields of God; and I don’t doubt the egg of the East its glory— Yet it rains and the motors go and continued when I slept by that wall in Washington which separated the motors in the death-parlor where Joe McCarthy lay, lean and stilled, ten blocks from the Capitol— I could never understand Uncle Sam his red & white striped pants his funny whiskers his starry hat: how surreal Yankee Doodle Dandy, goof! American history has a way of making you feel George Washington is still around, that is when I think of Washington I do not think of Death— Of all Presidents I have been under Hoover is the most unreal and FDR is the most President-looking and Truman the most Jewish-looking and Eisenhower the miscast of Time into Space— Hoover is another America, Mr. 1930 and what must he be thinking now? FDR was my youth, and how strange to still see his wife around. Truman is still in Presidential time. I saw Eisenhower helicopter over Athens and he looked at the Acropolis like only Zeus could. OF THE PEOPLE is fortunate and select. FOR THE PEOPLE has never happened in America or elsewhere. BY THE PEOPLE is the sadness of America. I am not politic. I am not patriotic. I am nationalistic! I boast well the beauty of America to all the people in Europe. In me they do not see their vision of America. O whenever I pass an American Embassy I don’t know what to feel! Sometimes I want to rush in and scream: “I’m American!” but instead go a few paces down to the American Bar get drunk and cry: “I’m no American!” The men of politics I love are but youth’s fantasy: The fine profile of Washington on coins stamps & tobacco wraps The handsomeness and death-in-the-snow of Hamilton. The eyeglasses shoe-buckles kites & keys of Ben Franklin. The sweet melancholy of Lincoln. The way I see Christ, as something romantic & unreal, is the way I see them. An American is unique among peoples. He looks and acts like a boyman. He never looks cruel in uniform. He is rednecked portly rich and jolly. White-haired serious Harvard, kind and wry. A convention man a family man a rotary man & practical joker. He is moonfaced cunning well-meaning & righteously mean. He is Madison Avenue, handsome, in-the-know, and superstitious. He is odd, happy, quicker than light, shameless, and heroic Great yawn of youth! The young don’t seem interested in politics anymore. Politics has lost its romance! The “bloody kitchen” has drowned! And all that is left are those granite façades of Pentagon, Justice, and Department— Politicians do not know youth! They depend on the old and the old depend on them and lo! this has given youth a chance to think of heaven in their independence. No need to give them liberty or freedom where they’re at— When Stevenson in 1956 came to San Francisco he campaigned in what he thought was an Italian section! He spoke of Italy and Joe DiMaggio and spaghetti, but all who were there, all for him, were young beatniks! and when his car drove off Ginsberg & I ran up to him and yelled: “When are you going to free the poets from their attics!” Great yawn of youth! Mad beautiful oldyoung America has no candidate the craziest wildest greatest country of them all! and not one candidate— Nixon arrives ever so temporal, self-made, frontways sideways and backways, could he be America’s against? Detour to vehicle? Mast to wind? Shore to sea? Death to life? The last President? |
Gregory Corso |
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2018-02-27 03:37:21 |
America To England poem |
1899Who would trust England, let him lift his eyes To Nelson, columned o'er Trafalgar Square, Her hieroglyph of duty, written where The roar of traffic hushes to the skies; Or mark, while Paul's vast shadow softly lies On Gordon's statued sleep, how praise and prayer Flush through the frank young faces clustering there To con that kindred rune of sacrifice. O England, no bland cloud-ship in the blue, But rough oak plunging on o'er perilous jars Of reef and ice, our faith will follow you The more for tempest roar that strains your spars And splits your canvas, be your helm but true, Your courses shapen by the eternal stars.1900The nightmare melts at last, and London wakes To her old habit of victorious ease. More men, and more, and more for over-seas, More guns until the giant hammer breaks That patriot folk whom even God forsakes. Shall not Great England work her will on these, The foolish little nations, and appease An angry shame that in her memory aches? But far beyond the fierce-contested flood, The cannon-planted pass, the shell-torn town, The last wild carnival of fire and blood, Beware, beware that dim and awful Shade, Armored with Milton's sword and Cromwell's frown, Affronted Freedom, of her own betrayed! |
Katharine Lee Bates |
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2018-02-27 03:37:24 |
*america - * poem |
-for pilgrim sake, and land once, of 'Native' soilAllegiance pledged, ofconquest gained, fromEarth's borne spirits' bold.America, Proud AmericaOur Earth, need not be harmedwhen war tales are often told and blood stained flags, unfoldAmerica, we Love thee of gifted Earth bequeathedne'er we forget, Democracy, and all those enslaved, be freeAmerica AmericaMay true freedom be our QuestOf Womanhood and Brotherhoodfrom shore to ocean sea.'With Love and Compassion, Wherever Earth Be Shared' Please; 'Support Peace'Louie LevyWW ll Vet. |
Louie Levy |
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2018-02-27 03:37:29 |
God Bless Us (America America America .. poem |
O Lord, our refuge and strengthWhen it's 'in God we trust'The foe has struck your firstbornWith a great infamous thrustLike history repeatedA Trojan Horse awaitTo massacre the blamelessA 'Nine-eleven' fateThey've dared defy an armyThat does proclaim you LordDeliver US from their handWhet your glittering swordOur Father who's in heavenShield US, your battle axeGuard these in Thy replevinThen Babylon do taxGive US righteous victoryIn Thy name, Lord of hostSo that all the earth may know'In God we trust' foremostO Lord, our Rock and fortress'Land of the Free' protectKeep US strong 'til Shiloh comeThen on to Him collectHe maketh the wars to ceaseUnto the end of earthBreaketh bow, cut sunder spearTo chariots flame's birth'Be calm, and know that I am God: I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth.'*The Lord of hosts is with USOur refuge we proclaimBless US in our endeavorWe ask in Jesus name*Psalms 46: 10, Inspired by Jeremiah Chapters 50 and 51© 2011 |
Udiah (witness to Yah) |
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2018-02-27 03:37:33 |
America poem |
Glorious daughter of time! Thou of the mild blue eye -- Thou of the virginal forehead --pallid, unfurrowed of tears-- Thou of the strong white hands with fingers dipped in the dye Of the blood that quickened the fathers of thee, in the ancient years, Leave thou the path of the beasts. Return thou again to the hills, Forsake thou the deserts of death, where ever the burning thirst, Flames in the throat for blood, for the vile desire that kills, Where the treacherous sands by the rebel cerastes are cursed, And the wastes are strewn with the bones of folly and hate. Return! where the sunlight gladdens the places of green, Where the stars comes forth, the heralds of faith and fate, And the winds of eternity breathe from a day unseen. Thou! what hast thou to do with a time burnt out and done? With the old Serbonian bog-- the marshes where nations were lost? Where wailings are heard of the dead, of the slaughtered Roman and Hun, And phosphorent lights arise in the hands of a stricken ghost, Dreaming of splendors of battle that glanced from a million shields, When the C¾sars pillaged for lust of gold and hunger of power; And the giants of Gothland festered and stank on the stretching fields, And the gods of the living were cursed, too weak to reveal the hour, When they should triumph and others should writhe in a dread defeat, In the day of thy grace, O fair and false to thy fathers and time, O thou whom the snares of kings already encompass thy feet, With thy singing robes besprent with the old Egyptian slime. But thou hast harkened to guile, to the cunning words of shame, To the tempter with pieces of gold and the praise of the drunken throng. Scornfully push from their hands the crown of a common fame, Not made for thy peaceful brows, for thou wert not born for wrong. Thou art the fruit of the groaning cycles of hope and love, Told of by maddened prophets who never beheld thy face, Who drew from the teeming earth and the fetterless sky above, That man was made to be free, and to stamp under foot the mace. How should thy innocent eyes ever leer with a reddened look? Or thy hair be scented save of the measureless sea? Or thy feet know the ways of deceit, wrote out in the murderous book, By monarchs who shrank from the scourging and doom of thy strength and thee? Beloved of time and of fate, cherished of justice and truth, Yet thou art free to do, to choose the ill and to die; To squander thy beauty for hire, to waste thy eternal youth -- For thou art eternal, if thou heedst them not, but pass by, Pass and return to the mountains of freedom and peace, Where heavenward flame the fires, where the torches may be relumed, To girdle the world with the light that was kindled in olden Greece; Or that the sparks may be scattered wherever injustice has doomed, Darkness to be the portion of those who famish for light. Be thou the great rock's shadow cast in a weary land, Be thou a star of guidance true in a wintry night, Be thou thyself, and thyself alone, as heaven hath planned. |
Edgar Lee Masters |
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2018-02-27 03:37:37 |
Circular From America poem |
Against the eagledHemisphereI lean my eagerEditorial earAnd what the devilYou think I hear?I hear the BeatNo not of the heartBut the dull palpitationOf the New ArtAs, on the dead tread,Mill of no mind,It follows its leadersUnbeaten behind.O Kerouac KerouacWhat on earth shall we doIf a single IdeaEver gets through?. . . 1/2 an ideaTo a hundred pagesNow Jack, dear Jack,That ain't fair wagesFor labouring throughProse that takes agesJust to announceThat Gods and MenOught all to studyThe Book of Zen.If you really thinkSo low of the soulWhy don't you writeOn a toilet roll? |
George Barker |
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2018-02-27 03:37:43 |
To Walt Whitman In America poem |
Send but a song oversea for us, Heart of their hearts who are free,Heart of their singer, to be for us More than our singing can be;Ours, in the tempest at error,With no light but the twilight of terror; Send us a song oversea!Sweet-smelling of pine-leaves and grasses, And blown as a tree through and throughWith the winds of the keen mountain-passes, And tender as sun-smitten dew;Sharp-tongued as the winter that shakesThe wastes of your limitless lakes, Wide-eyed as the sea-line's blue.O strong-winged soul with prophetic Lips hot with the bloodheats of song,With tremor of heartstrings magnetic, With thoughts as thunders in throng,With consonant ardours of chordsThat pierce men's souls as with swords And hale them hearing along,Make us too music, to be with us As a word from a world's heart warm,To sail the dark as a sea with us, Full-sailed, outsinging the storm,A song to put fire in our earsWhose burning shall burn up tears, Whose sign bid battle reform;A note in the ranks of a clarion, A word in the wind of cheer,To consume as with lightning the carrion That makes time foul for us here;In the air that our dead things infestA blast of the breath of the west, Till east way as west way is clear.Out of the sun beyond sunset, From the evening whence morning shall be,With the rollers in measureless onset, With the van of the storming sea,With the world-wide wind, with the breathThat breaks ships driven upon death, With the passion of all things free,With the sea-steeds footless and frantic, White myriads for death to bestrideIn the charge of the ruining Atlantic Where deaths by regiments ride,With clouds and clamours of waters,With a long note shriller than slaughter's On the furrowless fields world-wide,With terror, with ardour and wonder, With the soul of the season that wakesWhen the weight of a whole year's thunder In the tidestream of autumn breaks,Let the flight of the wide-winged wordCome over, come in and be heard, Take form and fire for our sakes.For a continent bloodless with travail Here toils and brawls as it can,And the web of it who shall unravel Of all that peer on the plan;Would fain grow men, but they grow not,And fain be free, but they know not One name for freedom and man?One name, not twain for division; One thing, not twain, from the birth;Spirit and substance and vision, Worth more than worship is worth;Unbeheld, unadored, undivined,The cause, the centre, the mind, The secret and sense of the earth.Here as a weakling in irons, Here as a weanling in bands,As a prey that the stake-net environs, Our life that we looked for stands;And the man-child naked and dear,Democracy, turns on us here Eyes trembling with tremulous handsIt sees not what season shall bring to it Sweet fruit of its bitter desire;Few voices it hears yet sing to it, Few pulses of hearts reaspire;Foresees not time, nor forehearsThe noises of imminent years, Earthquake, and thunder, and fire:When crowned and weaponed and curbless It shall walk without helm or shieldThe bare burnt furrows and herbless Of war's last flame-stricken field,Till godlike, equal with time,It stand in the sun sublime, In the godhead of man revealed.Round your people and over them Light like raiment is drawn,Close as a garment to cover them Wrought not of mail nor of lawn;Here, with hope hardly to wear,Naked nations and bare Swim, sink, strike out for the dawn.Chains are here, and a prison, Kings, and subjects, and shame;If the God upon you be arisen, How should our songs be the same?How, in confusion of change,How shall we sing, in a strange Land, songs praising his name?God is buried and dead to us, Even the spirit of earth,Freedom; so have they said to us, Some with mocking and mirth,Some with heartbreak and tears;And a God without eyes, without ears, Who shall sing of him, dead in the birth?The earth-god Freedom, the lonely Face lightening, the footprint unshod,Not as one man crucified only Nor scourged with but one life's rod;The soul that is substance of nations,Reincarnate with fresh generations; The great god Man, which is God.But in weariest of years and obscurest Doth it live not at heart of all things,The one God and one spirit, a purest Life, fed from unstanchable springs?Within love, within hatred it is,And its seed in the stripe as the kiss, And in slaves is the germ, and in kings.Freedom we call it, for holier Name of the soul's there is none;Surelier it labours if slowlier, Than the metres of star or of sun;Slowlier than life into breath,Surelier than time into death, It moves till its labour be done.Till the motion be done and the measure Circling through season and clime,Slumber and sorrow and pleasure, Vision of virtue and crime;Till consummate with conquering eyes,A soul disembodied, it rise From the body transfigured of time.Till it rise and remain and take station With the stars of the worlds that rejoice;Till the voice of its heart's exultation Be as theirs an invariable voice;By no discord of evil estranged,By no pause, by no breach in it changed, By no clash in the chord of its choice.It is one with the world's generations, With the spirit, the star, and the sod;With the kingless and king-stricken nations, With the cross, and the chain, and the rod;The most high, the most secret, most lonely,The earth-soul Freedom, that only Lives, and that only is God. |
Algernon Charles Swinburne |
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2018-02-27 03:37:47 |
England To America poem |
And what of thee, O Lincoln's Land? What gloom Is darkening above the Sunset Sea? Vowed Champion of Liberty, deplume Thy war-crest, bow thy knee, Before God answer thee.What talk is thine of rebels? Didst thou turn, My very child, thy vaunted sword on me, To scoff to-day at patriot fires that burn In hearts unbound to thee, Flames of the Sunset Sea? |
Katharine Lee Bates |
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2018-02-27 03:37:51 |
America In 1804 poem |
(America Conquers Europe.) Foul shapes that hate the day, again grown bold, Late driven hence, infested fane and court. The laurels of our victory were amort. Vile King-craft with his breed of blood and gold Took heart to see the ancient wrongs infold Our life, and childish figments which disport I' that pale light whose essence mayn't support Realities, in Freedom's hall to hold Sick carnival did troop. But at the height Of that debauch, while yet could be erased The smut and spittle from the sacred chart, Written in blood --a man whose soul gave light Intolerable to kings, their power abased, As he subdued the empire of the heart. |
Edgar Lee Masters |
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2018-02-27 03:37:55 |
Concept Of America (America America Am.. poem |
People unitedTo secure their libertyOut of many, oneI've written a letter for anyone who cares where this great country of ours is heading. It has bothered some on this poetry sight so much they have had it removed from the search engine, despite my many attempts at restoring it. Why do they allow certain authors to lambaste our great country, while anyone trying to bring forth the truth is silenced? The letter is entitled 'Our Liberty' © 2011America America America America America America America America America America America America America America America America America America America America America America America America America America America America America America America America freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku |
Udiah (witness to Yah) |
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2018-02-27 03:37:57 |
America In 1904 poem |
(Europe Conquers America.) Strong for the strong and in his own conceit; Half-boy, half-madman, playing with the fire; Usurper, hoodlum, wed to his desire; Loud in the hunt--afraid albeit to beat The wolves which reared him--always with swift feet, Booted and spurred to huddle in the mire The malcontents, though Freedom die--no higher Launching his truncheon; only to the street Thundering at millionaires; unlearned, though read, In human agony--surrendered up To glory, war--of empty pomp the chief-- Europa, thou hast conquered! with bowed head For Freedom slain (who prayed might pass the cup) We pray, in faith, thy triumph may be brief! |
Edgar Lee Masters |
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