Modern American PoetryLouis Untermeyer Harcourt, Brace, 1921 - 406 pagini |
Cuprins
| 193 | |
| 209 | |
| 212 | |
| 217 | |
| 223 | |
| 229 | |
| 237 | |
| 243 | |
| 33 | |
| 42 | |
| 53 | |
| 60 | |
| 69 | |
| 75 | |
| 78 | |
| 87 | |
| 97 | |
| 107 | |
| 117 | |
| 133 | |
| 142 | |
| 150 | |
| 157 | |
| 162 | |
| 171 | |
| 174 | |
| 257 | |
| 265 | |
| 266 | |
| 273 | |
| 279 | |
| 286 | |
| 293 | |
| 314 | |
| 331 | |
| 337 | |
| 344 | |
| 345 | |
| 354 | |
| 367 | |
| 383 | |
| 390 | |
| 399 | |
| 401 | |
Alte ediții - Afișează-le pe toate
Termeni și expresii frecvente
ain't American Amy Lowell Anthology ballads beauty beneath blue boomlay born Bret Harte bright Bynner Chicago Poems color COMPANY-for Copyright dark dead dear world death dream dust earth England eyes face feet flowers Frost glory grass hand Harte heart heaven hills of Habersham Hovey Imagists Irwin Russell Joaquin Miller John Gould Fletcher Lanier later light Lindsay lines literary lived look Macmillan Company Markham Miss moon never night opinyin uv poems poet poetic poetry published Reprinted by permission rhyme Richard Hovey Robinson Sandburg Sara Teasdale shine silence sing sleep smile Smoke song soul spirit Spoon River Anthology stars sweet things thou thought trail tree turned Vachel Lindsay valleys of Hall verse voice volume West Whitman wild William Rose Benét William Vaughn Moody wind write York
Pasaje populare
Pagina 327 - I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree. A tree whose hungry mouth is prest Against the sweet earth's flowing breast; A tree that looks at God all day, And lifts her leafy arms to pray; 1 From Trees and Other Poems by Joyce Kilmer. Copyright, 1914, by George H. Doran Company, Publishers.
Pagina 328 - 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. MARTIN
Pagina 41 - Time was when the little toy dog was new, And the soldier was passing fair; And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue Kissed them and put them there. " Now don't you go till I come,'^ he said, " And don't you make any noise! " So, toddling off to his trundle bed, He dreamt of
Pagina 339 - 1 I have a rendezvous with Death At some disputed barricade, When Spring comes back with rustling shade And apple-blossoms fill the air— I have a rendezvous with Death When Spring brings back blue days and fair. 1 From Poems by Alan Seeger. Copyright, 1916, by Charles Scribner's Sons. By permission of the publishers.
Pagina 40 - LITTLE BOY BLUE 1 The little toy dog is covered with dust, But sturdy and staunch he stands; The little toy soldier is red with rust, And his musket moulds in his hands. 1 Reprinted from The Complete Works of Eugene Field by permission of Charles Scribner's Sons, holders of the copyright.
Pagina 173 - I should have called it Something you somehow haven't to deserve." Warren leaned out and took a step or two, Picked up a little stick, and brought it back And broke it in his hand and tossed it by. " Silas has better claim on us you think
Pagina 177 - And so I dream of going back to be. It's when I'm weary of considerations, And life is too much like a pathless wood "Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs Broken across it, and one eye is weeping From a twig's having lashed across it open. I'd like to get away from earth awhile
Pagina 8 - but Jim yelled out, Over all the infernal roar, " I'll hold her nozzle again the bank Till the last galoot's ashore." Through the hot, black breath of the burnin' boat Jim Bludso's voice was heard, And they all had trust in his cussedness, And knowed he would keep his word. 12
Pagina 9 - And, sure's you're born, they all got off Afore the smokestacks fell,— And Bludso's ghost went up alone In the smoke of the Prairie Belle. He warn't no saint,—but at jedgement I'd run my chance with Jim, 'Longside of some pious gentlemen That wouldn't shook hands with him. He seen his duty, a dead-sure thing,— And went for it thar and then;
Pagina 171 - MENDING WALL Something there is that doesn't love a wall, That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it, And spills the upper boulders in the sun; And makes gaps even two can pass abreast. The work of hunters is