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Emily Dickinson

The Red Leaves take the Green Leaves place and the Landscape yields. We go to sleep with the Peach in our Hands and wake with the Stone, But the Stone is the pledge of Summers to come—   — Emily Dickinson, [268]. New Poems of Emily Dickinson. (The University of North Carolina Press January 1,… Continue reading Emily Dickinson

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Walt Whitman

I believe in the flesh and the appetites, Seeing, hearing, feeling, are miracles, and each part and tag of me is a miracle. Divine am I inside and out, and I make holy whatever I touch or am touch’d from, The scent of these arm-pits aroma finer than prayer, This head more than churches, bibles,… Continue reading Walt Whitman

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Walt Whitman

It will illustrate one phase of humanity anyhow; how few of life’s days and hours (and they not by relative value or proportion, but by chance) are ever noted. Probably another point too, how we give long preparations for some object, planning and delving and fashioning, and then, when the actual hour for doing arrives,… Continue reading Walt Whitman

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Walt Whitman

I am the poet of the Body and I am the poet of the Soul, The pleasures of heaven are with me and the pains of hell are with me, The first I graft and increase upon myself, the latter I translate     into new tongue. — Walt Whitman, from Section 21 of “Song of… Continue reading Walt Whitman

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Walt Whitman

I Saw in Louisiana A Live-Oak Growing I saw in Louisiana a live-oak growing, All alone stood it and the moss hung down from the branches, Without any companion it grew there uttering joyous leaves of dark green, And its look, rude, unbending, lusty, made me think of myself, But I wonder’d how it could… Continue reading Walt Whitman

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Henry David Thoreau

A lake is a landscape’s most beautiful and expressive feature. It is Earth’s eye; looking into which the beholder measures the depth of his own nature. ― Henry David Thoreau, Walden. (Princeton University Press; 150th Anniversary edition with a New introduction by John Updike edition April 18, 2004)  Originally published 1854.

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Emily Dickinson

‘Twas just this time, last year, I died. I know I heard the Corn, When I was carried by the Farms — It had the Tassels on — I thought how yellow it would look — When Richard went to mill — And then, I wanted to get out, But something held my will. I… Continue reading Emily Dickinson

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