From Whitman to Sandburg in American Poetry: A Critical Survey

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Macmillan, 1924 - 245 psl.
 

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108 psl. - I FLED Him, down the nights and down the days; I fled Him, down the arches of the years; I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways Of my own mind; and in the mist of tears I hid from Him, and under running laughter. Up vistaed hopes, I sped; And shot, precipitated, Adown Titanic glooms of chasmed fears, From those strong Feet that followed, followed after. But with unhurrying chase, And unperturbed pace, Deliberate speed, majestic instancy, They beat, — and a Voice beat More instant than the Feet:...
3 psl. - Of physiology from top to toe I sing: Not physiognomy alone nor brain alone is worthy for the Muse; I say the Form complete is worthier far. The Female equally with the Male I sing. 5 Of Life immense in passion, pulse, and power, Cheerful, for freest action form'd under the laws divine, The Modern Man I sing.
24 psl. - Come lovely and soothing death, Undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriving, In the day, in the night, to all, to each, Sooner or later delicate death.
29 psl. - RECONCILIATION WORD over all, beautiful as the sky, Beautiful that war and all its deeds of carnage must in time be utterly lost...
107 psl. - I have forgot much, Cynara! gone with the wind, Flung roses, roses riotously with the throng, Dancing, to put thy pale, lost lilies out of mind; But I was desolate and sick of an old passion, Yea, all the time, because the dance was long: I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion. I cried for madder music and for stronger wine, But when the feast is finished and the lamps expire, Then falls thy shadow, Cynara! the night is thine; And I am desolate and sick of an old passion, Yea hungry...
182 psl. - And spread her apron to it. She put out her hand Among the harp-like morning-glory strings, Taut with the dew from garden bed to eaves, As if she played unheard some tenderness That wrought on him beside her in the night. "Warren," she said, "he has come home to die: You needn't be afraid he'll leave you this time.
161 psl. - Too deep to clear them away! The leaves fall early this autumn, in wind. The paired butterflies are already yellow with August Over the grass in the west garden — They hurt me.
24 psl. - I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun, I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags. I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love, If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.
29 psl. - Who are you elderly man so gaunt and grim, with well-gray'd hair, and flesh all sunken about the eyes? Who are you my dear comrade? Then to the second I step— and who are you my child and darling? Who are you sweet boy with cheeks yet blooming? Then to the third— a face nor child nor old, very calm, as of beautiful yellow-white ivory; Young man I think I know you— I think this face is the face of the Christ himself, Dead and divine and brother of all, and here again he lies.
173 psl. - We were very tired, we were very merry We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.

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