Fair tree! for thy delightful shade
'Tis just that some return be made; . . .
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I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
. . .
Jeremiah Dickson was a true-blue American,
For he was a little boy who understood America, for he felt that he must
Think about everything; because that’s all there is to think about, . . .
I think continually of those who were truly great.
Who, from the womb, remembered the soul’s history
Through corridors of light, where the hours are suns, . . .
And if sun comes
How shall we greet him?
Shall we not dread him,
Shall we not fear him . . .
We made it from the ground-up corn in the old back pasture.
Pinched a scent of night jasmine billowing off the fence,
popped it right in. . . .
Try to praise the mutilated world.
Remember June's long days,
and wild strawberries, drops of rosé wine. . . .
Two guitars were left in a room all alone
They sat on different corners of the parlor
In this solitude they started talking to each other . . .
Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye, . . .