The Poets of the Future: A College AnthologyHenry Thomas Stratford Company, 1918 |
Altres edicions - Mostra-ho tot
Frases i termes més freqüents
angels Barnard College birds birthday blood blue breath breeze bright child clouds comes crimson dance dark dead death deep deep lust Dorothy DOROTHY REED dreams drowsy earth Eleusis Erechtheus eyes face fair feet flowers France gleam gold golden gone Goucher College gray hair Halt hand Harvard University Haste hear heart heaven hills Hope COLLEGE Hush kiss laugh laughter light lips lonely love can save Love is life's m'sieur mammy melody Milton College moon mother Mount Holyoke College never Nid-nod night o'er Oberlin College peace Pierre pray prayer purple Red roses Rose color Santerre Sensula shadows sigh silent sing sleep smile snow soft song soul sound Southern California Spirit Spring stars summer sway sweep sweet tears things thou trees University of Southern Vassar College wait wake wasted song Wellesley College Western Reserve University whispering wind
Passatges populars
Pàgina 35 - Kenyan. The distant hills are gleaming gold. Ashine with slopes of goldenrod, And far and high above them sounds The golden laughter of a god. But laughter of the gods is faint, And goldenrod grows grey in rain. And they were nought to me, could I But hear your golden songs againLIFE By Ida B.
Pàgina 106 - To all of the Seven Seas, But never beyond her love and pride, And ever the deathless tales abide They learned at the Mother's knees. Stern she is, as well becomes The nurse of gentle men, Who trains their tread to roll of drums Their hands to sword and pen. Her iron-blooded arteries hold No soft Corinthian strain; The Attic soul in a Spartan mould, Loyal and hardy, clean and bold, Shall govern the roaring main. They come from South, they come from North They come from East and West; And who can...
Pàgina 106 - The mother sits by Severn side, Where Severn joins the Bay, And great gray ships go down the tide And carry her sons away. They carry them far, they carry them wide, To all the Seven Seas, But never beyond her love and pride, And ever the deathless tales abide They learned at the Mother's knee. Stern she is, as well becomes The nurse of gentle men. Who trains their tread to roll of drums. Their hands to sword and pen. Her iron-blooded arteries hold No soft Corinthian strain; The Attic soul in a Spartan...
Pàgina 107 - ... in a hundred fights, The admiral's son, and the plowman's son, Mothered by her they all are one, Her race of sailor knights. Young, and eager and unafraid, As neophytes they kneeled And watched their arms, and only prayed " Keep stain from every shield.
Pàgina 82 - I'da sense of humor, — At least you told me so — — And pride beyond all rumor — And so — I let you go. Life breaks us — that grows plainer. And wit declines to gall — With none of us the gainer — It seems a shame — that's all ! When truth about me nears you You'd better shut your eyes — And you — his sugar smears you, And the air hums with flies. Stephen Vincent Benet. ONE OF THEM LAUGHED.
Pàgina 87 - ... I've anchored my soul in the haven of rest." Under the stars The Lie, before which I had crouched in terror An hour since Has lost its f earsomeness ; And the need to confess about the broken pitcher Is growing less urgent; God is good! He knows I am sorry — The pitcher had a pink rose painted on its side, I had loved the rose — The waves of drowsiness dash high — higher, Over the flower-memory, Over my new resolves, Over me; And the stars of the prairie night Smile on.
Pàgina 148 - I begin to think, Unless the angels bake, Why I'm afraid her little boy Won't have a birthday cake. And then it seems to me so mean, That, when a feller's seven, He can't have a birthday, Just because he's up in heaven.
Pàgina 147 - s the way my mother does ; Without a tiny sound She tiptoes in and wakes us up And kisses all around. She gives us one for every year, With twenty for good measure ; Hugs us awful tight and says, "You're Mommy's little treasure.
Pàgina 198 - A-walkin' lightly down the sthreet — his blackthorn stick in hand, Tipped his hat to all av us — not a whit o' pride in him, A kindly twinkle in his eye, beloved by all the land. Ever singin' gaily — an Irish lilt upon his tongue, A penny fur the childer — an
Pàgina 199 - Many's a year he's dead now — many's an' eye was wet for him; A grand ould Irish gintleman — the grandest in the land, * Reprinted from the "Bookman." February, 1918. An' niver more we'll see him — the kindly* laughin' eyes o