Edward Estlin (E E) Cummings | |
are leaves few this.
is these a or
scratchily over which of earth dragged once
; were who skies clutch an of poor
how colding hereless.
air theres what immense
live without every dancing.
ly a child's eyes float silently down
more than two those that and that noing our
gone snow gone
alive and shall be:cities may overflow(am
was)assassinating whole grassblades five
ideas can swallow a man;three words im
-prison a woman for all her now:but we've
such freedom such intense digestion so
much greenness only dying makes us grow
Wang Wei | |
As the years go by, give me but peace,
Freedom from ten thousand matters.
I ask myself and always answer:
What can be better than coming home?
A wind from the pine-trees blows my sash,
And my lute is bright with the mountain moon.
You ask me about good and evil fortune?.
Hark, on the lake there's a fisherman singing!
William Henry Davies | |
To think my thoughts are hers,
Not one of hers is mine;
She laughs -- while I must sigh;
She sighs -- while I must whine.
She eats -- while I must fast;
She reads -- while I am blind;
She sleeps -- while I must wake;
Free -- I no freedom find.
To think the world for me
Contains but her alone,
And that her eyes prefer
Some ribbon, scarf, or stone.
Helen Hunt Jackson | |
What freeman knoweth freedom? Never he
Whose father's father through long lives have reigned
O'er kingdoms which mere heritage attained.
Though from his youth to age he roam as free
As winds, he dreams not freedom's ecstacy.
But he whose birth was in a nation chained
For centuries; where every breath was drained
From breasts of slaves which knew not there could be
Such thing as freedom,--he beholds the light
Burst, dazzling; though the glory blind his sight
He knows the joy.
Fools laugh because he reels
And weilds confusedly his infant will;
The wise man watching with a heart that feels
Says: "Cure for freedom's harms is freedom still.
Helen Hunt Jackson | |
I WILL not follow you, my bird,
I will not follow you.
I would not breathe a word, my bird,
To bring thee here anew.
I love the free in thee, my bird,
The lure of freedom drew;
The light you fly toward, my bird,
I fly with thee unto.
And there we yet will meet, my bird,
Though far I go from you
Where in the light outpoured, my bird,
Are love and freedom too.
George William Russell | |
IMAGE of beauty, when I gaze on thee,
Trembling I waken to a mystery,
How through one door we go to life or death
By spirit kindled or the sensual breath.
Image of beauty, when my way I go;
No single joy or sorrow do I know:
Elate for freedom leaps the starry power,
The life which passes mourns its wasted hour.
And, ah, to think how thin the veil that lies
Between the pain of hell and paradise!
Where the cool grass my aching head embowers
God sings the lovely carol of the flowers.
George William Russell | |
WHILE the earth is dark and grey
How I laugh within.
In my breast what ardours gay
From the morning overflow.
Though the cheek be white and wet
In my heart no fear may fall:
There my chieftain leads and yet
Ancient battle trumpets call.
Bend on me no hasty frown
If my spirit slight your cares:
Sunlike still my joy looks down
Changing tears to beamy airs.
Think me not of fickle heart
If with joy my bosom swells
Though your ways from mine depart,
In the true are no farewells.
What I love in you I find
A friend I greet
In each flower and tree and wind—
Oh, but life is sweet, is sweet!
What to you are bolts and bars
Are to me the arms that guide
To the freedom of the stars,
Where my golden kinsmen bide.
From my mountain top I view:
Twilight’s purple flower is gone,
And I send my song to you
On the level light of dawn.
George William Russell | |
I HAVE wept a million tears:
Pure and proud one, where are thine,
What the gain though all thy years
In unbroken beauty shine?
All your beauty cannot win
Truth we learn in pain and sighs:
You can never enter in
To the circle of the wise.
They are but the slaves of light
Who have never known the gloom,
And between the dark and bright
Willed in freedom their own doom.
Think not in your pureness there,
That our pain but follows sin:
There are fires for those who dare
Seek the throne of might to win.
Pure one, from your pride refrain:
Dark and lost amid the strife
I am myriad years of pain
Nearer to the fount of life.
When defiance fierce is thrown
At the god to whom you bow,
Rest the lips of the Unknown
Tenderest upon my brow.
Ella Wheeler Wilcox | |
The uses of sorrow I comprehend
Better and better at each year’s end.
Deeper and deeper I seem to see
Why and wherefore it has to be
Only after the dark, wet days
Do we fully rejoice in the sun’s bright rays.
Sweeter the crust tastes after the fast
Than the sated gourmand’s finest repast.
The faintest cheer sounds never amiss
To the actor who once has heard a hiss.
To one who the sadness of freedom knows,
Light seem the fetters love may impose.
And he who has dwelt with his heart alone,
Hears all the music in friendship’s tone.
So better and better I comprehend,
How sorrow ever would be our friend.
Friedrich von Schiller | |
Once for the sceptre of Germany, fought with Bavarian Louis
Frederick, of Hapsburg descent, both being called to the throne.
But the envious fortune of war delivered the Austrian
Into the hands of the foe, who overcame him in fight.
With the throne he purchased his freedom, pledging his honor
For the victor to draw 'gainst his own people his sword;
But what he vowed when in chains, when free he could not accomplish,
So, of his own free accord, put on his fetters again.
Deeply moved, his foe embraced him,--and from thenceforward
As a friend with a friend, pledged they the cup at the feast;
Arm-in-arm, the princes on one couch slumbered together.
While a still bloodier hate severed the nations apart.
'Gainst the army of Frederick Louis now went, and behind him
Left the foe he had fought, over Bavaria to watch.
"Ay, it is true! 'Tis really true! I have it in writing!"
Thus did the Pontifex cry, when he first heard of the news.
Henry Van Dyke | |
What hast thou done, O womanhood of France,
Mother and daughter, sister, sweetheart, wife,
What hast thou done, amid this fateful strife,
To prove the pride of thine inheritance
In this fair land of freedom and romance?
I hear thy voice with tears and courage rife,--
Smiling against the swords that seek thy life,--
Make answer in a noble utterance:
"I give France all I have, and all she asks.
Would it were more! Ah, let her ask and take:
My hands to nurse her wounded, do her tasks,--
My feet to run her errands through the dark,--
My heart to bleed in triumph for her sake,--
And all my soul to follow thee, Jeanne d'Arc!"
Lady Mary Chudleigh | |
WIFE and servant are the same,
But only differ in the name :
For when that fatal knot is ty'd,
Which nothing, nothing can divide :
When she the word obey has said,
And man by law supreme has made,
Then all that's kind is laid aside,
And nothing left but state and pride :
Fierce as an eastern prince he grows,
And all his innate rigour shows :
Then but to look, to laugh, or speak,
Will the nuptial contract break.
Like mutes, she signs alone must make,
And never any freedom take :
But still be govern'd by a nod,
And fear her husband as a God :
Him still must serve, him still obey,
And nothing act, and nothing say,
But what her haughty lord thinks fit,
Who with the power, has all the wit.
Then shun, oh ! shun that wretched state,
And all the fawning flatt'rers hate :
Value yourselves, and men despise :
You must be proud, if you'll be wise.
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | |
YE love, and sonnets write! Fate's strange behest!
The heart, its hidden meaning to declare,
Must seek for rhymes, uniting pair with pair:
Learn, children, that the will is weak, at best.
Scarcely with freedom the o'erflowing breast
As yet can speak, and well may it beware;
Tempestuous passions sweep each chord that's there,
Then once more sink to night and gentle rest.
Why vex yourselves and us, the heavy stone
Up the steep path but step by step to roll?
It falls again, and ye ne'er cease to strive.
But we are on the proper road alone!
If gladly is to thaw the frozen soul,
The fire of love must aye be kept alive.
The Bible | |
We have truly been set free
For Christ has redeemed us,
We can walk in His holy power
And know His saving love
May we stand fast in this freedom
Not to be again ensnared
By the heavy yoke we once had borne
When spiritually we were dead
But thanks be to God,
Who has given us the liberty,
Who has resurrected us
To walk in His victory.
Scripture Poem © Copyright Of M.
Erin Belieu | |
I've known the pleasures of being
fired at least eleven times—
most notably by Larry who found my snood
unsuitable, another time by Jack,
whom I was sleeping with.
tardiness, a contagious lack
of team spirit; I have been unmotivated
squirting perfume onto little cards,
while stocking salad bars, when stripping
covers from romance novels, their heroines
slaving on the chain gang of obsessive love—
and always the same hard candy
of shame dissolving in my throat;
handing in my apron, returning the cash-
And yet, how fine it feels,
the perversity of freedom which never signs
a rent check or explains anything to one's family.
Robert Seymour Bridges | |
Brothers in blood! They who this wrong began
To wreck our commonwealth, will rue the day
When first they challenged freeman to the fray,
And with the Briton dared the American.
Now are we pledged to win the Rights of man:
Labour and Justice now shall have their way,
And in a League of Peace -- God grant we may --
Transform the earth, not patch up the old plan.
Sure is our hope since he who led your nation
Spake for mankind, and ye arose in awe
Of that high call to work the world's salvation;
Clearing your minds of all estrangling blindness
In the vision of Beauty and the Spirit's law,
Freedom and Honour and sweet Lovingkindness.
Paul Laurence Dunbar | |
When it is finally ours, this freedom, this liberty, this beautiful
and terrible thing, needful to man as air,
usable as earth; when it belongs at last to all,
when it is truly instinct, brain matter, diastole, systole,
reflex action; when it is finally won; when it is more
than the gaudy mumbo jumbo of politicians:
this man, this Douglass, this former slave, this Negro
beaten to his knees, exiled, visioning a world
where none is lonely, none hunted, alien,
this man, superb in love and logic, this man
shall be remembered.
Oh, not with statues' rhetoric,
not with legends and poems and wreaths of bronze alone,
but with the lives grown out of his life, the lives
fleshing his dream of the beautiful, needful thing.
Joyce Kilmer | |
"Dulce et decorum est"
The bugle echoes shrill and sweet,
But not of war it sings to-day.
The road is rhythmic with the feet
Of men-at-arms who come to pray.
The roses blossom white and red
On tombs where weary soldiers lie;
Flags wave above the honored dead
And martial music cleaves the sky.
Above their wreath-strewn graves we kneel,
They kept the faith and fought the fight.
Through flying lead and crimson steel
They plunged for Freedom and the Right.
May we, their grateful children, learn
Their strength, who lie beneath this sod,
Who went through fire and death to earn
At last the accolade of God.
In shining rank on rank arrayed
They march, the legions of the Lord;
He is their Captain unafraid,
The Prince of Peace .
Who brought a sword.
Etheridge Knight | |
Lord she's gone done left me done packed / up and split
and I with no way to make her
come back and everywhere the world is bare
bright bone white crystal sand glistens
dope death dead dying and jiving drove
her away made her take her laughter and her smiles
and her softness and her midnight sighs--
Fuck Coltrane and music and clouds drifting in the sky
fuck the sea and trees and the sky and birds
and alligators and all the animals that roam the earth
fuck marx and mao fuck fidel and nkrumah and
democracy and communism fuck smack and pot
and red ripe tomatoes fuck joseph fuck mary fuck
god jesus and all the disciples fuck fanon nixon
and malcom fuck the revolution fuck freedom fuck
the whole muthafucking thing
all i want now is my woman back
so my soul can sing
Walt Whitman | |
BEHAVIOR—fresh, native, copious, each one for himself or herself,
Nature and the Soul expressed—America and freedom expressed—In it the finest
In it pride, cleanliness, sympathy, to have their chance,
In it physique, intellect, faith—in it just as much as to manage an army or a city,
write a book—perhaps more,
The youth, the laboring person, the poor person, rivalling all the rest—perhaps
The effects of the universe no greater than its;
For there is nothing in the whole universe that can be more effective than a man’s or
woman’s daily behavior can be,
In any position, in any one of These States.
Walt Whitman | |
HERE, take this gift!
I was reserving it for some hero, speaker, or General,
One who should serve the good old cause, the great Idea, the progress and freedom of the
Some brave confronter of despots—some daring rebel;
—But I see that what I was reserving, belongs to you just as much as to any.
Walt Whitman | |
IN former songs Pride have I sung, and Love, and passionate, joyful Life,
But here I twine the strands of Patriotism and Death.
And now, Life, Pride, Love, Patriotism and Death,
To you, O FREEDOM, purport of all!
(You that elude me most—refusing to be caught in songs of mine,)
I offer all to you.
’Tis not for nothing, Death,
I sound out you, and words of you, with daring tone—embodying you,
In my new Democratic chants—keeping you for a close,
For last impregnable retreat—a citadel and tower,
For my last stand—my pealing, final cry.
Walt Whitman | |
THE prairie-grass dividing—its special odor breathing,
I demand of it the spiritual corresponding,
Demand the most copious and close companionship of men,
Demand the blades to rise of words, acts, beings,
Those of the open atmosphere, coarse, sunlit, fresh, nutritious,
Those that go their own gait, erect, stepping with freedom and command—leading, not
Those with a never-quell’d audacity—those with sweet and lusty flesh, clear of
Those that look carelessly in the faces of Presidents and Governors, as to say, Who are
Those of earth-born passion, simple, never-constrain’d, never obedient,
Those of inland America.
Rg Gregory | |
the dream of the white bird flying
offers a freedom as tasty as nectar
how our lips purse to the goddess’s pap
at the want of such swoops through the air
to be rid of the drag on our legs
the sloshing through drudgery and mire
the daily entangling with bramble
the hurt of our hair caught in barbs
when there in the bowl of our eye
that milky-white shaft through the sun
pierces old canopies revealing
heights that have never been deemed
then to be up and away forgetting
icarus has been there before us
white heat is the worst of all fires
we’re dust before the dream’s gone cold
there’s no bird doesn’t need its tree
with its leaden roots buried in earth
and the earth needs its water - all
things that fly with their fine-pointed rage
must have cool fruits to come down to
before ecstasy and soaring can yield
the unimaginable answers sustaining
the longings all born are bequeathed
Rg Gregory | |
crisis has a fact to get straight
it needn't be the end of the world
beginnings too are coated with death
because we've had enough of the old's
dirty jokes doesn't mean there's no
more grass ready to push itself up
or dreams can't go on being lived
the dreamers' necks having been twisted
(visions root in mists and spread outwards)
the chrysalis has to be taken apart
for the wings to erupt into freedom
ideas grow from the flesh they've grown into
murder's a godfather to birth
and the born sing illiterate songs
they intend as a new kind of language
only as their hands bloom red
with their own brand of murders
will their words simmer down to the same
but their rawness is something to hope for
and the cry in the middle of hate
is a cord we should grasp - no matter
how often it will serve as a noose
- when the dungeon we're in is so cosy
crimes-to-come put the boot in for eden