Yes, I have a thousand tongues,
And nine and ninety-nine lie.
Though I strive to use the one,
It will make no melody at my will,
But is dead in my mouth.
“Yes, I have a thousand tongues” by Stephen Crane [w/ Audio]
2
Tag Archives: American Literature
“Mezzo Cammin” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow [w/ Audio]
Half of my life is gone, and I have let
The years slip from me and have not
fulfilled
The aspiration of my youth, to build
Some tower of song with lofty parapet.
Not indolence, nor pleasure, nor the fret
Of restless passions that would not be
stilled,
But sorrow, and a care that almost killed,
Kept me from what I may accomplish yet;
Though, half-way up the hill, I see the Past
Lying beneath me with its sounds and
sights, --
A city in the twilight dim and vast,
With smoking roofs, soft bells, and
gleaming lights, --
And hear above me on the autumnal blast
The cataract of Death far thundering
from the heights.
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“The World Below the Brine” by Walt Whitman [w/ Audio]
The world below the brine,
Forests at the bottom of the sea,
the branches and leaves,
Sea-lettuce, vast lichens, strange flowers
and seeds, the thick tangle, openings,
and pink turf,
Different colors, pale gray and green,
purple, white, and gold, the play of light
through the water,
Dumb swimmers there among the rocks,
coral, gluten, grass, rushes, and the
aliment of the swimmers,
Sluggish existences grazing there suspended,
or slowly crawling close to the bottom,
The sperm-whale at the surface blowing air
and spray, or disporting with his flukes,
The leaden-eyed shark, the walrus, the
turtle, the hairy sea-leopard, and the
sting-ray,
Passions there, wars, pursuits, tribes,
sight in those ocean-depths, breathing
that thick-breathing air, as many do,
The change thence to the sight here,
and to the subtle air breathed by beings
like us who walk this sphere,
The change onward from ours to that of
beings who walk other spheres.
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“O Me! O Life!” by Walt Whitman [w/ Audio]
Oh me! Oh life! of the questions of these
recurring,
Of the endless trains of the faithless,
of cities fill'd with the foolish,
Of myself forever reproaching myself,
(for who more foolish than I, and who
more faithless?)
Of eyes that vainly crave the light, of the
objects mean, of the struggle ever
renew'd,
Of the poor results of all, of the plodding
and sordid crowds I see around me,
Of the empty and useless years of the
rest, with the rest me intertwined,
The question, O me! so sad, recurring --
What good amid these, O me, O life?
Answer.
That you are here--that life exists and
identity,
That the powerful play goes on, and you
may contribute a verse.
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“I never hear the word ‘Escape'” (144) by Emily Dickinson [w/ Audio]
I never hear the word "Escape"
Without a quicker blood,
A sudden expectation --
A flying attitude!
I never hear of prisons broad
By soldiers battered down,
But I tug childish at my bars
Only to fail again!
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“Nature” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow [w/ Audio]
As a fond mother, when the day is o'er,
Leads by the hand her little child to bed,
Half willing, half reluctant to be led,
And leave his broken playthings on the floor,
Still gazing at them through the open door,
Nor wholly reassured and comforted
By promises of others in their stead,
Which, though more splendid, may not
please him more;
So Nature deals with us, and takes away
Our playthings one by one, and by the hand
Leads us to rest so gently, that we go
Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay,
Being too full of sleep to understand
How far the unknown transcends the
what we know.
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“Banish Air from Air” (963) by Emily Dickinson [w/ Audio]
Banish Air from Air --
Divide Light if you dare --
They'll meet
While Cubes in a Drop
Or Pellets of Shape
Fit --
Films cannot annul
Odors return whole
Force Flame
And with a Blonde push
Over your impotence
Flits Steam.
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“Shiloh: A Requiem” by Herman Melville [w/ Audio]
Skimming lightly, wheeling still,
The swallows fly low
Over the field in clouded days,
The forest-field of Shiloh--
Over the field where April rain
Solaced the parched ones stretched in pain
Through the pause of night
That followed the Sunday fight
Around the church of Shiloh--
The church so lone, the log-built one,
That echoed to many a parting groan
And natural prayer
Of dying foemen mingled there--
Foemen at morn, but friends at eve--
Fame or country least their care:
(What like a bullet can undeceive!)
But now they lie low,
While over them the swallows skim,
And all is hushed in Shiloh.
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“Beginners” by Walt Whitman [w/ Audio]
How they are provided for upon the earth,
(appearing at intervals;)
How dear and dreadful they are to the earth;
How they inure to themselves as much as to
any -- What a paradox appears their age;
How people respond to them, yet know them not;
How there is something relentless in their fate,
all times;
How all times mischoose the objects of their
adulation and reward,
And how the same inexorable price must still
be paid for the same great purchase.
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“Of Glory not a Beam is left” (1685) by Emily Dickinson [w/ Audio]
Of Glory not a Beam is left
But her Eternal House --
The Asterisk is for the Dead,
The Living, for the Stars --
Tiger Riding for Beginners 