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Robert Frost

Why make so much of fragmentary blue In here and there a bird, or butterfly, Or flower, or wearing-stone, or open eye, When heaven presents in sheets the solid hue? Since earth is earth, perhaps, not heaven (as yet)— Though some savants make earth include the sky; And blue so far above us comes so… Continue reading Robert Frost

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Walt Whitman

Here the frailest leaves of me, and yet my strongest-lasting: Here I shade and hide my thoughts—I myself do not expose them, And yet they expose me more than all my other poems. — Walt Whitman, “Here the Frailest Leaves of Me,” Leaves of Grass. Originally published: July 4, 1855

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Walt Whitman

This is what you shall do: Love the earth and sun and the animals, despise riches, give alms to everyone that asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income and labor to others, hate tyrants, argue not concerning God, have patience and indulgence toward the people, take off your hat to nothing… Continue reading Walt Whitman

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Robert Frost

My November Guest My Sorrow, when she’s here with me,     Thinks these dark days of autumn rain Are beautiful as days can be; She loves the bare, the withered tree;     She walked the sodden pasture lane. Her pleasure will not let me stay.     She talks and I am fain to list: She’s… Continue reading Robert Frost

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Henry David Thoreau

Not till we are lost, in other words, not till we have lost the world, do we begin to find ourselves, and realize where we are and the infinite extent of our relations. — Henry David Thoreau, Walden. (Princeton University Press; 150th Anniversary edition with a New introduction by John Updike edition April 18, 2004)… Continue reading Henry David Thoreau

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American Culture · American Literature · Americana · Anthology · Classic · Collection · Colloquial Speech · Compilation · Modernism · Poetry · Traditionalism

Robert Frost

  Reluctance Out through the fields and the woods And over the walls I have wended; I have climbed the hills of view And looked at the world, and descended; I have come by the highway home, And lo, it is ended. The leaves are all dead on the ground, Save those that the oak… Continue reading Robert Frost

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