#Americans
You shall not be overbold When you deal with arctic cold, As late I found my lukewarm blood Chilled wading in the snow—choked… How should I fight? my foeman fin…
THE EYE is the first circle; the horizon which it forms is the second; and throughout nature this primary picture is repeated without end. It is the highest emblem in the cipher of the ...
Why should I keep holiday, When other men have none? Why but because when these are gay… I sit and mourn alone. And why when mirth unseals all ton…
The rain has spoiled the farmer’s… Shall sorrow put my books away? Thereby are two days lost: Nature shall mind her own affairs, I will attend my proper cares,
Guard well your spare moments. Th…
The prosperous and beautiful To me seem not to wear The yoke of conscience masterful, Which galls me everywhere. I cannot shake off the god;
Butler, fetch the ruby wine, Which with sudden greatness fills… Pour for me who in my spirit Fail in courage and performance; Bring the philosophic stone,
The water understands Civilization well; It wets my foot, but prettily, It chills my life, but wittily, It is not disconcerted,
The first thing we have to say respecting what are called new views here in New England, at the present time, is, that they are not new, but the very oldest of thoughts cast into the mo...
I greet you on the re-commencement of our literary year. Our anniversary is one of hope, and, perhaps, not enough of labor. We do not meet for games of strength or skill, for the recita...
Think me not unkind and rude, That I walk alone in grove and gl… I go to the god of the wood To fetch his word to men. Tax not my sloth that I
Let us exchange congratulations on the enjoyments and the promises of this literary anniversary. The land we live in has no interest so dear, if it knew its want, as the fit consecratio...
I am the Muse who sung alway By Jove, at dawn of the first day… Star—crowned, sole—sitting, long… To fire the stagnant earth with th… On spawning slime my song prevails…
The rhyme of the poet Modulates the king’s affairs, Balance—loving nature Made all things in pairs. To every foot its antipode,
I mourn upon this battle—field, But not for those who perished her… Behold the river—bank Whither the angry farmers came, In sloven dress and broken rank,
