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The press of my foot to the earth springs a hundred affections.
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The mother condemned for a witch and burnt with dry wood, and her children gazing on; The hounded slave that flags in the race and leans by the fence, blowing and covered with sweat, The twinges that sting like needles his legs and neck, The murderous buckshot and the bullets, All these I feel or am.
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At times it has been doubtful to me if Emerson really knows or feels what Poetry is at its highest, as in the Bible, for instance, or Homer or Shakspeare. I see he covertly or plainly likes best superb verbal polish, or something old or odd.
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Now I see that there is no such thing as love unreturn'd. The pay is certain, one way or another.
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The President eats dirt and excrement for his daily meals, likes it and tries to force it on The States.
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I discover myself on the verge of a usual mistake.
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I saw battle-corpses, myriads of them, And the white skeletons of young men-I saw them; I saw the debris and debris of all the dead soldiers of the war; But I saw they were not as was thought; They themselves were fully at rest-they suffered not; The living remained and suffered-the mother suffered, And the wife and the child, and the musing comrade suffered, And the armies that remained suffered.
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O joy of suffering! To struggle against great odds! to meet enemies undaunted! To be entirely alone with them! to find how much one can stand! To look strife, torture, prison, popular odium, death, face to face! To mount the scaffold! to advance to the muzzles of guns with perfect nonchalance! To be indeed a God!
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O me! O life!... of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless... of cities filled with the foolish; what good amid these, O me, O life?
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Once fully enslaved, no nation, state, city of this earth ever afterward resumes its liberty.
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I mind how once we lay such a transparent summer morning, How you settled your head athwart my hips and gently turned over upon me, And parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and plunged your tongue to my bare-stript heart, And reached till you felt my beard, and reached till you held my feet.
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O magnet-South! O glistening perfumed South! My South! O quick mettle, rich blood, impulse and love! Good and evil! O all dear to me!
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I tramp a perpetual journey.
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And as to you Death, and you bitter hug of mortality, it is idle to try to alarm me.
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The best writing has no lace on its sleeves.
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Everybody is writing, writing, writing - worst of all, writing poetry. It'd be better if the whole tribe of the scribblers - every damned one of us - were sent off somewhere with tool chests to do some honest work.
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The work for giants...to serve well the guns!
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Do you see O my brothers and sisters? It is not chaos or death, it is form, union, plan, it is eternal life, it is happiness.
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I see great things in baseball. It's our game - the American game. It will take our people out-of-doors, fill them with oxygen, give them a larger physical stoicism. Tend to relieve us from being a nervous, dyspeptic set. Repair these losses, and be a blessing to us.
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I am too not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable, I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.
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Be not dishearten'd -- Affection shall solve the problems of Freedom yet; Those who love each other shall become invincible.
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Why should I wish to see God better than this day? I see something of God each hour of the twenty-four, and each moment then, In the faces of men and women I see God, and in my own face in the glass; I find letters from God dropped in the street, and every one is signed by God's name, And I leave them where they are, for I know that others will punctually come forever and ever.
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Human bodies are words, myriads of words, (In the best poems re-appears the body, man's or woman's, well-shaped, natural, gay, Every part able, active, receptive, without shame or the need of shame.)
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When the materials are all prepared and ready, the architects shall appear.