a woman whose ribs had the power of the hills in
them and her hands were tough for work and there
was passion for life in her womb.
For the entire poem tap here:
http://carl-sandburg.com/population_drifts.htm
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NEW-MOWN hay smell and wind of the plain made her
a woman whose ribs had the power of the hills in them and her hands were tough for work and there was passion for life in her womb. For the entire poem tap here: http://carl-sandburg.com/population_drifts.htm
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BETWEEN two hills
The old town stands. The houses loom And the roofs and trees And the dusk and the dark, The damp and the dew Are there. The prayers are said And the people rest For sleep is there And the touch of dreams Is over all. That is the entire poem. http://carl-sandburg.com/between_two_hills.htm THE sea is never still.
It pounds on the shore Restless as a young heart, Hunting. For the entire poem tap here: http://carl-sandburg.com/young_sea.htm HOG Butcher for the World,
Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat, Player with Railroads and the Nation’s Freight Handler; Stormy, husky, brawling, City of the Big Shoulders: For the entire poem tap here: http://www.bartleby.com/165/1.html I am the people—the mob—the crowd—the mass. Do you know that all the great work of the world is done through me? I am the workingman, the inventor, the maker of the world's food and clothes. I am the audience that witnesses history. The Napoleons come from me and the Lincolns. They die. And then I send forth more Napoleons and Lincolns. I am the seed ground. I am a prairie that will stand for much plowing. Terrible storms pass over me. I forget. The best of me is sucked out and wasted. I forget. Everything but Death comes to me and makes me work and give up what I have. And I forget. -
For the entire poem tap here: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15264 She rose among us where we lay. She wept, we put our work away. She chilled our laughter, stilled our play; And spread a silence there. And darkness shot across the sky, And once, and twice, we heard her cry; And saw her lift white hands on high And toss her troubled hair.
For the entire poem tap here. http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/21079 Voluuptuous Spring! - in this soft southern clime,
For the entire poem tap here: https://archive.org/details/redeaglepoemofso00meek The Oriole sings in the greening grove
As if he were half-way waiting, The rosebuds peep from their hoods of green, Timid, and hesitating. The rain comes down in a torrent sweep And the nights smell warm and pinety, The garden thrives, but the tender shoots Are yellow-green and tiny. Then a flash of sun on a waiting hill, Streams laugh that erst were quiet, The sky smiles down with a dazzling blue And the woods run mad with riot. That is the entire poem. http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/summer-in-the-south/ LAND of the South! - imperial land! -
How proud thy mountains rise! How sweet thy scenes on every hand! How fair thy covering skies! For the entire poem tap here: http://docsouth.unc.edu/southlit/kent/kent.html I would not paint — a picture --
I'd rather be the One It's bright impossibility To dwell — delicious — on -- And wonder how the fingers feel Whose rare — celestial — stir -- Evokes so sweet a torment -- Such sumptuous — Despair -- I would not talk, like Cornets -- For the entire poem tap here. http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/247286 |
AuthorRon ALan . Archives
September 2060
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