The lithe sheer of their waists plays even with their massive arms;. Over-hand the hammers swing—over-hand so slow— over-hand so sure:. The negro that drives the dray of the stone-yard— steady and tall he stands, pois'd on one leg on the string-piece;. His blue shirt exposes his ample neck and breast, and loosens over his hip-band;. His glance is calm and commanding—he tosses the slouch of his hat away from his forehead;.
The sun falls on his crispy hair and moustache—falls on the black of his polish'd and perfect limbs. It seems to me more than all the print I have read in my life. And consider green and violet, and the tufted crown, intentional;. And do not call the tortoise unworthy because she is not something else;. And the jay in the woods never studied the gamut, yet trills pretty well to me;.
Issue Theme: Naturalisms—Scientific? Religious? Theological?
And the look of the bay mare shames silliness out of me. The pert may suppose it meaningless, but I listen close;. I find its purpose and place up there toward the wintry sky. The brood of the turkey-hen, and she with her half- spread wings;. Of men that live among cattle, or taste of the ocean or woods,.
Of the builders and steerers of ships, and the wielders of axes and mauls, and the drivers of horses;. Adorning myself to bestow myself on the first that will take me;. The carpenter dresses his plank—the tongue of his foreplane whistles its wild ascending lisp;. The married and unmarried children ride home to their Thanksgiving dinner;.
The pilot seizes the king-pin—he heaves down with a strong arm;.
The mate stands braced in the whale-boat—lance and harpoon are ready;. The deacons are ordain'd with cross'd hands at the altar;. The spinning-girl retreats and advances to the hum of the big wheel;. The farmer stops by the bars, as he walks on a First- day loafe, and looks at the oats and rye;. The lunatic is carried at last to the asylum, a confirm'd case,. He will never sleep any more as he did in the cot in his mother's bedroom;.
The jour printer with gray head and gaunt jaws works at his case,. He turns his quid of tobacco, while his eyes blurr with the manuscript;. The quadroon girl is sold at the auction-stand—the drunkard nods by the bar-room stove;. The machinist rolls up his sleeves—the policeman trav- els his beat—the gate-keeper marks who pass;. The young fellow drives the express-wagon— I love him, though I do not know him;.
The half-breed straps on his light boots to compete in the race;. The western turkey-shooting draws old and young— some lean on their rifles, some sit on logs,. Out from the crowd steps the marksman, takes his position, levels his piece;.
The groups of newly-come immigrants cover the wharf or levee;. As the woolly-pates hoe in the sugar-field, the overseer views them from his saddle;. The bugle calls in the ball-room, the gentlemen run for their partners, the dancers bow to each other;. The youth lies awake in the cedar-roof'd garret, and harks to the musical rain;. The Wolverine sets traps on the creek that helps fill the Huron;. The squaw, wrapt in her yellow-hemm'd cloth, is offer- ing moccasins and bead-bags for sale;. The connoisseur peers along the exhibition-gallery with half-shut eyes bent sideways;.
As the deck-hands make fast the steamboat, the plank is thrown for the shore-going passengers;.
Revelations of Divine Love by Julian of Norwich | LibraryThing
The young sister holds out the skein, while the elder sister winds it off in a ball, and stops now and then for the knots;. The one-year wife is recovering and happy, having a week ago borne her first child;. The clean-hair'd Yankee girl works with her sewing- machine, or in the factory or mill;. The nine months' gone is in the parturition chamber, her faintness and pains are advancing;.
The paving-man leans on his two-handed rammer—the reporter's lead flies swiftly over the note-book— the sign-painter is lettering with red and gold;. The canal-boy trots on the tow-path—the book-keeper counts at his desk—the shoemaker waxes his thread;. The conductor beats time for the band, and all the per- formers follow him;.
The child is baptized—the convert is making his first professions;. The regatta is spread on the bay—the race is begun— how the white sails sparkle! The drover, watching his drove, sings out to them that would stray;. The pedler sweats with his pack on his back, the pur- chaser higgling about the odd cent;. The camera and plate are prepared, the lady must sit for her daguerreotype;.
The bride unrumples her white dress, the minute-hand of the clock moves slowly;. The opium-eater reclines with rigid head and just- open'd lips;. The prostitute draggles her shawl, her bonnet bobs on her tipsy and pimpled neck;. The crowd laugh at her blackguard oaths, the men jeer and wink to each other;. I do not laugh at your oaths, nor jeer you;. The President, holding a cabinet council, is surrounded by the Great Secretaries;. On the piazza walk three matrons stately and friendly with twined arms;.
The crew of the fish-smack pack repeated layers of hal- ibut in the hold;. The Missourian crosses the plains, toting his wares and his cattle;. As the fare-collector goes through the train, he gives notice by the jingling of loose change;.
Revelations of Divine Love by Julian of Norwich (Paperback, 2006)
The floor-men are laying the floor—the tinners are tinning the roof—the masons are calling for mortar;. In single file, each shouldering his hod, pass onward the laborers;. Seasons pursuing each other, the indescribable crowd is gather'd—it is the Fourth of Seventh-month— What salutes of cannon and small arms! Seasons pursuing each other, the plougher ploughs, the mower mows, and the winter-grain falls in the ground;.
Off on the lakes the pike-fisher watches and waits by the hole in the frozen surface;. The stumps stand thick round the clearing, the squatter strikes deep with his axe;.
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Flatboatmen make fast, towards dusk, near the cotton- wood or pekan-trees;. Coon-seekers go through the regions of the Red river, or through those drain'd by the Tennessee, or through those of the Arkansaw;. Torches shine in the dark that hangs on the Chatta- hooche or Altamahaw;.
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Patriarchs sit at supper with sons and grandsons and great-grandsons around them;. In walls of adobie, in canvas tents, rest hunters and trappers after their day's sport;. The living sleep for their time, the dead sleep for their time;. The old husband sleeps by his wife, and the young hus- band sleeps by his wife;.
Blaise Pascal (1623–1662)
And these one and all tend inward to me, and I tend outward to them;. Stuff'd with the stuff that is coarse, and stuff'd with the stuff that is fine;. One of the Great Nation, the nation of many nations, the smallest the same, and the largest the same;. A southerner soon as a northerner—a planter non- chalant and hospitable, down by the Oconee I live;. A Yankee, bound my own way, ready for trade, my joints the limberest joints on earth, and the stern- est joints on earth;.
A Kentuckian, walking the vale of the Elkhorn, in my deer-skin leggings—a Louisianian or Georgian;. A boatman over lakes or bays, or along coasts—a Hoosier, Badger, Buckeye;. At home on Kanadian snow-shoes, or up in the bush, or with fishermen off Newfoundland;. At home in the fleet of ice-boats, sailing with the rest and tacking;. At home on the hills of Vermont; or in the woods of Maine, or the Texan ranch;.
Comrade of Californians—comrade of free north-west- erners, loving their big proportions;.