In the darksome depths of the fathomless mine
My tireless arm doth play,
Where the rocks never saw the sun’s decline,
Or the dawn of the glorious day.
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I blow the bellows, I forge the steel,
In all the shops of trade;
I hammer the ore and turn the wheel
Where my arms of strength are made;
I manage the furnace, the mill, the mint,
I carry, I spin, I weave,
And all my doings I put in print
On every Saturday eve.
George W. Cutter
(The Song of Steam)
July Twenty-Third
... The rush, the tumult, and the fear
Of this our modern age
Have only widened out the poet’s sphere,
Have given him a broader stage
On which to act his part.
The spiritual world of godlike aspirations,
The kingdom of the sympathetic heart,
The fair domain of high imaginations,
Lie open to the poet as of old.
Wrong still is wrong, and right is right,
·······
And to declare that poetry must go,
Is to do God a wrong.
William P. Trent
(The Age and the Poet)
July Twenty-Fourth
Ante-bellum Master: “Julius, you rascal, if this happens again we’ll have to part.”
“La, Marse Phil, whar you gwine?”
July Twenty-Fifth
The nights are full of love;
The stars and moon take up the golden tale
Of the sunk sun, and passionate and pale,
Mixing their fires above,
Grow eloquent thereof.
Madison Cawein