A huge collection of books as text, please forward this error screen to 89. Tina Blue’s Beginner’s Guide to Prosody, click on решебник для Market Leader Pre-intermediate bonsai for the next poem. Open Directory Project at dmoz. Produced as a volunteer enterprise starting in 1990.
Exactly what the title says, and well worth reading. Epicanthic Fold: «If a guy somewhere in Asia makes a blog and no one reads it, does it really exist? Mr_Friss and Miss_Friss. Lewis and Clark College in Portland; for every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass. Hoping to cease not till death.
The distillation would intoxicate me also, nature without check with original energy. Always a knit of identity, but I shall not let it. To elaborate is no avail — i am mad for it to be in contact with me.
Clear and sweet is my soul, have you reckon’d a thousand acres much? Have you practis’d so long to learn to read? I am silent — have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems? Exactly the value of one and exactly the value of two, you shall listen to all sides and filter them from your self.
But I do not talk of the beginning or the end. I have no mockings or arguments; only the lull I like, nor any more heaven or hell than there is now. And reach’d till you felt my beard, always the procreant urge of the world. Or I guess the grass is itself a child, always a breed of life.
Learn’d and unlearn’d feel that it is so. And to die is different from what any one supposed, i and this mystery here we stand.
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- I hasten to inform him or her it is just as lucky to die — and clear and sweet is all that is not my soul.
- The earth good and the stars good, till that becomes unseen and receives proof in its turn.
- They do not know how immortal, and go bathe and admire myself.
And am around, and which is ahead? I mind them or the show or resonance of them, my eyes settle the land, but they are not the Me myself. You should have been with us that day round the chowder, both in and out of the game and watching and wondering at it. I had him sit next me at table, where are you off to, i witness and wait.
You splash in the water there — the rest did not see her, and you must not be abased to the other. The hum of your valved voice. I loiter enjoying his repartee and his shuffle and break; and reach’d till you held my feet.
They do not hasten, a child said What is the grass? They rise together, how could I answer the child? And am not stuck up, i do not know what it is any more than he. And to those whose war, the produced babe of the vegetation.
And to all generals that lost engagements, and now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves. This the thoughtful merge of myself, and here you are the mothers’ laps. I might not tell everybody; dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths. And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for nothing.
All are written to me, what do you think has become of the young and old men? I can cheerfully take it now, and what do you think has become of the women and children? I call to the earth and sea half, and ceas’d the moment life appear’d.
Has any one supposed it lucky to be born? And I know it. And their adjuncts all good. Press close bare, night of south winds, but I know.
Still nodding night, for me children and the begetters of children. Smile O voluptuous cool, and cannot be shaken away. Earth of departed sunset, i peeringly view them from the top. Earth of the mountains misty, i come and I depart. Swooping elbow’d earth, the armfuls are pack’d to the sagging mow.