When Art goes bounding, lean, Up hill-tops fired green To pluck a rose for life. Life like a broody hen Cluck-clucks him back again.

How should they appraise you, who… Only time standing well off shall…

You can see the sandhills from our… Butterflies live in the sandhills and lizards and centipedes.

Not yet hast Thou sounded Thy clangorous music, Whose strings are under the mounta… Not yet hast Thou spoken The blooded, implacable Word...

Mama’s face is smooth and pale as tea-rose lea… That ivory oval of aunt Gem you sucked the miniature off had black black hair like mama.

They pass through the great iron g… Men with eyes gravely discerning, Skilled to appraise the tunnage of… Or split an inch into thousandths… Men tempered by fire as the ore is

I wonder how it would be here with you, where the wind that has shaken off its dust in lo… touches one cleanly,

I am of the wind... A wisp of the battering wind... I trail my fingers along the Alps And an avalanche falls in my wake.… I feel in my quivering length

—Albert Parsons went to his death singing Annie Laurie; didn’t another have a rose in his coat–

I love those spirits That men stand off and point at, Or shudder and hood up their souls… Those ruined ones, Where Liberty has lodged an hour

Oh, God did cunningly, there at B… Not mere tongues dividing, but sou… So that never again should men be… To fashion one infinite, towering…

Will you feast with me, American… But what have I that shall seem g… On my board are bitter apples And honey served on thorns, And in my flagons fluid iron,

Undulant rustlings, Of oncoming silk, Rhythmic, incessant, Like the motion of leaves… Fragments of color

The old men of the world have made… To warm their trembling hands. They poke the young men in. The young men burn like withes. If one run a little way,