Archibald MacLeish

Archibald MacLeish

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Archibald MacLeish (May 7, 1892 – April 20, 1982) was an American poet and writer who was associated with the modernist school of poetry. MacLeish studied English at Yale University and law at Harvard University.
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The earth, still heavy and warm with afternoon,
Dazed by the moon:
The earth, tormented with the moon’s light,
Wandering in the night:
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HE praisers of women in their proud and beautiful
Naming the grave mouth and the hair and the
Boasted those they loved should be forever
These were
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mon semblable, mon frère(1) Our epoch takes a voluptuous satisfaction In that perspective of the action Which pictures us inhabiting the end Of everything with death for only friend
Not that we love death,
Not truly, not the fluttering b...
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To R
L
ER her voice, her name,
Eyes, quietness neither,
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for Learned and Augustus
You, my friends, and you strangers, all of you,
Stand with me a little by the walls Or where the walls once were
The bridge was here, the city further:
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Señora, it is true the Greeks are dead
It is true also that we here are Americans:
That we use the machines: that a sight of the god is unusual:
That more people have more thoughts: that there are Progress and science and tractors a...
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These alternate nights and days, these seasons Somehow fail to convince me
It seems I have the sense of infinity
(In your dreams,
O crew of Columbus,
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The incoherent rushing of the train Dulls like a drugged pain Numbs To an ether throbbing of inaudible drums Unfolds Hush within hush until the night withholds Only its darkness
From the deep Dark a voice calls like a voice in sleep Slowly a ...
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Think of our blindness where the water burned
Are we so certain that those wings, returned And turning, we had half discerned Before our dazzled eyes had surely seen The bird aloft there, did not mean
— Our hearts so seized upon the sign...
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Oh, not the loss of the accomplished thing
Not dumb farewells, nor long relinquishment Of beauty had, and golden summer spent,
And savage glory of the fluttering Torn banners of the rain, and frosty ring Of moon-white winters, and the im...
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The young dead soldiers do not speak
Nevertheless, they are heard in the still houses: who has not heard them
They have a silence that speaks for them at night and when the clock counts
They say:
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This poem is for my wife
I have made it plainly and honestly:
The mark is on
Like the burl on the knife
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And here face down beneath the
And here upon earth's noonward
To feel the always coming
The always rising of the night:
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We too, we too, descending once
The hills of our own land, we too have
Far off —- Ah, que ce cor a longue haleine —-The horn of Roland in the passages of Spain,
The first, the second blast, the failing third,
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for Ernest
AP we these coppered
With headed
And garlic longed-for by the eager
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Quite unexpectedly, as
The armless ambidextrian was lightingA match between his great and second toe,
And Ralph the lion was engaged in
The neck of Madame Sossman while the
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