Katharine Lee Bates

Katharine Lee Bates

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Katharine Lee Bates (August 12, 1859 – March 28, 1929) was a prolific American writer, college professor, scholar, and social activist. Although she published volumes of poetry, travel books, essays, children's books, books for young adults,[1][2] and editions of many earlier writers' works, today Bates is primarily remembered as the author of "America the Beautiful".
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To Our President

PE of the Nations, lift thy stricken heart
Thyself art Sorrow, and to thee the
Of battle-anguish comes more
Than even in those months of sneer and smart,
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To My Country

O dear my Country, beautiful and dear,
Love cloth not darken sight
God looketh through Love's eyes, whose vision clear Beholds more flaws than keenest Hate hath known
Nor is Love's judgment gentle, but austere;
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At the crowded gangway they kissed good-bye
He had half a mind to scold her
An officer's mother and not keep dry The epaulet on his shoulder
He had forgotten mother and fame,
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Graves At Christiania

WE bore them their own wild
And ash-boughs jeweled red,
There where they sleep together,
Greatest of Norway's dead
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The Cry

US the cry beating on the smokeveiled sky
Since the first war-wrath burst on immortal Belgium,— Roar of cannon, shriek of shells, toll of earthward-crashing bells,
Thunder of the bomb exploding, careless where its tortures come
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The Morning Paper

Humanity disgraced
Time's dearest toil effaced
Poison gases and
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The Least Of These

HE wolf of want is
At doors no angel keeps
Young Mary smiled on her Holy Child,
But many a mother weeps
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When Lincoln Died

A five-year old in a Cape Cod village, twenty miles from the rail,
Falmouth, loveliest Falmouth,
Wearing her silvery, pearl-embroidered ocean mist for a veil;
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How Long

How long,
O Prince of Peace, how long
We sicken of the
Of this wild war that wraps the world, a roaring
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Starlight At Sea

ER the murmurous choral of dim
The constellations glow against the
Ethereal dusk, —forever fair, aloft,
Serene, while man climbs painfully from
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In A Northern Wood

NT are the cedar-boughs stretching green and level,
Feasting-halls where waxwings flit at their spicy revel,
But O the pine, the questing pine, that flings its arms on
To search the secret of the sun and escalade the sky
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AT sudden voice peals to the Caucasus,
To Finland and the bitter Caspian,
To those Siberian prisons whither
Shall seek as to a shrine, that mutinous,
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GH the winds but stir on their hoary
Of hemlock and pungent pine,
All the whispering woodland
Gossip of things divine, —Why God is gray in the granite rock,
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Fodder For Cannon

Bodies glad, erect,
Beautiful with youth,
Life's elect,
Nature's truth,
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Yellow Warblers

The first faint dawn was flushing up the
When, dreamland still bewildering mine eyes,
I looked out to the oak that, winter-long,— a winter wild with war and woe and wrong —Beyond my casement had been void of song
And lo
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Marching Feet

SE August nights, hushed but for drowsy
Of fledglings, tremble with a strange vibration,
A sound too far for hearing, sullen, dire,
Shaking the earth
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