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Страница 218 - I CELEBRATE myself, and sing myself, And what I assume you shall assume, For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.
Страница 218 - A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands; How could I answer the child ? I do not know what it is any more than he. I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven.
Страница 272 - Curious I halt and silent stand, Then with light fingers I from the face of the nearest the first just lift the blanket; Who are you elderly man so gaunt and grim, with well-gray'd hair and flesh all sunken about the eyes?
Страница 218 - I am the poet of the woman the same as the man, And I say it is as great to be a woman as to be a man, And I say there is nothing greater than the mother of men.
Страница 272 - I see a sad procession, And I hear the sound of coming full-key'd bugles, All the channels of the city streets they're flooding, As with voices and with tears. I hear the great drums pounding, And the small drums steady whirring, And every blow of the great convulsive drums, Strikes me through and through.
Страница 35 - WHEN the dumb Hour, clothed in black, Brings the Dreams about my bed, Call me not so often back, Silent Voices of the dead, Toward the lowland ways behind me, And the sunlight that is gone! Call me rather, silent voices, Forward to the starry track Glimmering up the heights beyond me On, and always on!
Страница 337 - I see the President almost every day, as I happen to live where he passes to or from his lodgings out of town. He never sleeps at the White House during the hot season, but has quarters at a healthy location some three miles north of the city, the Soldiers' home, a United States military establishment.
Страница 273 - For the son is brought with the father, (In the foremost ranks of the fierce assault they fell, Two veterans son and father dropt together, And the double grave awaits them). Now nearer blow the bugles, And the drums strike more convulsive, And the daylight o'er the pavement quite has faded, And the strong dead-march enwraps me. In the eastern sky up-buoying, The sorrowful vast phantom moves illumined, ('Tis some mother's large transparent face In heaven brighter growing).