Property:Parsed text

From Off the Road Database

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The Motor Road +
Bibliographic Information Author Bary, D. B. Genre Poetry Journal or Book - Publisher - Year of Publication 1912 Pages 721-722 Additional information - The open road’s a pleasure to the heart, When underneath the hood is sixty horse; I wait the moment when I may depart, To roll along the smooth and level course. road road condition affect pleasure animal engine metaphor When underneath the hood is sixty horse, Singing and spinning with the joy of power, To roll along the smooth and level course, Is surely to be happy for an hour. engine speed agency driving affect pleasure engine metaphor personification sound Singing and spinning with joy of power, Roaring up hills and winding through ravines Is surely to be happy for an hour; How else can one grasp half so many scenes? affect pleasure agency road rural wind sound scenery sublime Roaring up hills and winding through ravines, Gliding past meadows where the grass grows lush, How else can one grasp half so many scenes? So let us dawdle though we well might rush. rural driving haptic sound anthropomorphism road side scenery Gliding past meadows where the grass grows lush, By hamlets where the low-roofed houses stand, So let us dawdle tho’ we well might rush. ‘Tis pleasant thus to idle through the land. scenery plains affect pleasure nostalgia By hamlets where the low-roofed houses stand, Over the downs where feed the scattered sheep, ‘Tis pleasant thus idle through the land, Through woodlands where the western shades lie deep. infrastructure forest West metaphor Over the downs where feed the scattered sheep, Across the barren uplands, sere and brown, Through woodlands where the western shades lie deep, And so at last we turn again toward town. rural animal forest driving urban Across the barren uplands, sere and brown, We drive until the evening wind blows drear, And so at last we turn again toward town; The roar of traffic beats upon the ear. anthropomorphism driving wind town traffic sound We drive until the evening wind blows drear; I long for such a day to come once more. The roar of traffic beats upon the ear, I part with romance at the city’s door. driving night affect nostalgia sound engine traffic metaphor I long for such a day to come once more, I wait the moment when I may depart; I part with romance at the city’s door. The open road’s a pleasure to the heart. car metaphor affective pleasure town nostalgia  
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Off the Highway +
Bibliographic Information Author Huntington, Julia Weld Genre Poetry Journal or Book Poetry Magazine Publisher - Year of Publication 1921 Pages 81 Additional information - infrastructure roadside Lilacs lift leaves of cool satin And blossoms of mother-of-pearl Against the tarnished silver of the deserted house. Tall, exquisite grasses fill the door-yard with spray. Through the sun-drenched fragrance drifts the hazy monotone of bees. Tints of opal and jade; the hush of emerald shadows, And a sense of the past as a living presence Distil a haunting wistful peace. plant animal sunshine road side scenery smell metaphor  +
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Abide the Adventure +
Bibliographic Information Author Oppenheim, James Genre Poetry Journal or Book Songs for the New Age Publisher The Century Co. Year of Publication 1914 Pages 39-40 Additional information - Neither from the woe, Nor from the war, Think ye to escape... It helps nothing that ye shut your eyes, oh, cloistered cowards and gilded idlers! For neither shall cushion nor buffet ease the sharp shock of life, Neither shall delicate music in hushed hotels drown out the roar of the battling streets . . . Neither shall wingéd wheels carry you away to the place of peace . . . How can ye go from yourselves, deluded ones? affect car part road sound metaphor Make but a world of rest: Swifter than striking lightning The Aladdin of the soul builds in the heart A world of unresting hell... And, oh ye shunners of war, ye are gruelled in a war of the spirit, In a battle of nerves and blood-vessels and the ghost- haunted brain, And the death of delight... Hence, whip ye to battle: Live ye to the uttermost: Abide the adventure.  +
A Hundred Collars +
Bibliographic Information Author Frost, Robert Genre Poetry Journal or Book - Publisher - Year of Publication 1914 Pages - Additional information - Lancaster bore him—such a little town, Such a great man. It doesn’t see him often Of late years, though he keeps the old homestead And sends the children down there with their mother To run wild in the summer—a little wild. Sometimes he joins them for a day or two And sees old friends he somehow can’t get near. They meet him in the general store at night, Preoccupied with formidable mail, Rifling a printed letter as he talks. They seem afraid. He wouldn’t have it so: Though a great scholar, he’s a democrat, If not at heart, at least on principle. Lately when coming up to Lancaster His train being late he missed another train And had four hours to wait at Woodsville Junction After eleven o’clock at night. Too tired To think of sitting such an ordeal out, He turned to the hotel to find a bed. town urban train night “No room,” the night clerk said. “Unless——” Woodsville’s a place of shrieks and wandering lamps And cars that shock and rattle—and one hotel. car night sound “You say ‘unless.’“ “Unless you wouldn’t mind Sharing a room with someone else.” “Who is it?” “A man.” “So I should hope. What kind of man?” “I know him: he’s all right. A man’s a man. Separate beds of course you understand.” The night clerk blinked his eyes and dared him on. “Who’s that man sleeping in the office chair? Has he had the refusal of my chance?” “He was afraid of being robbed or murdered. What do you say?” “I’ll have to have a bed.” The night clerk led him up three flights of stairs And down a narrow passage full of doors, At the last one of which he knocked and entered. “Lafe, here’s a fellow wants to share your room.” “Show him this way. I’m not afraid of him, I’m not so drunk I can’t take care of myself.” The night clerk clapped a bedstead on the foot. “This will be yours. Good-night,” he said, and went. “Lafe was the name, I think?” “Yes, Layfayette. You got it the first time. And yours?” “Magoon. Doctor Magoon.” “A Doctor?” “Well, a teacher.” “Professor Square-the-circle-till-you’re-tired? Hold on, there’s something I don’t think of now That I had on my mind to ask the first Man that knew anything I happened in with. I’ll ask you later—don’t let me forget it.” The Doctor looked at Lafe and looked away. A man? A brute. Naked above the waist, He sat there creased and shining in the light, Fumbling the buttons in a well-starched shirt. “I’m moving into a size-larger shirt. I’ve felt mean lately; mean’s no name for it. I just found what the matter was to-night: I’ve been a-choking like a nursery tree When it outgrows the wire band of its name tag. I blamed it on the hot spell we’ve been having. ’Twas nothing but my foolish hanging back, Not liking to own up I’d grown a size. Number eighteen this is. What size do you wear?” The Doctor caught his throat convulsively. “Oh—ah—fourteen—fourteen.”                         “Fourteen! You say so! I can remember when I wore fourteen. And come to think I must have back at home More than a hundred collars, size fourteen. Too bad to waste them all. You ought to have them. They’re yours and welcome; let me send them to you. What makes you stand there on one leg like that? You’re not much furtherer than where Kike left you, You act as if you wished you hadn’t come. Sit down or lie down, friend; you make me nervous.” The Doctor made a subdued dash for it, And propped himself at bay against a pillow. “Not that way, with your shoes on Kike’s white bed. You can’t rest that way. Let me pull your shoes off.” “Don’t touch me, please—I say, don’t touch me, please. I’ll not be put to bed by you, my man.” “Just as you say. Have it your own way then. ‘My man’ is it? You talk like a professor. Speaking of who’s afraid of who, however, I’m thinking I have more to lose than you If anything should happen to be wrong. Who wants to cut your number fourteen throat! Let’s have a show down as an evidence Of good faith. There is ninety dollars. Come, if you’re not afraid.” “I’m not afraid. There’s five: that’s all I carry.” “I can search you? Where are you moving over to? Stay still. You’d better tuck your money under you And sleep on it the way I always do When I’m with people I don’t trust at night.” “Will you believe me if I put it there Right on the counterpane—that I do trust you?” “You’d say so, Mister Man.—I’m a collector. My ninety isn’t mine—you won’t think that. I pick it up a dollar at a time All round the country for the Weekly News, Published in Bow. You know the Weekly News?” “Known it since I was young.” “Then you know me. Now we are getting on together—talking. I’m sort of Something for it at the front. My business is to find what people want: They pay for it, and so they ought to have it. Fairbanks, he says to me—he’s editor— Feel out the public sentiment—he says. A good deal comes on me when all is said. The only trouble is we disagree In politics: I’m Vermont Democrat— You know what that is, sort of double-dyed; The News has always been Republican. Fairbanks, he says to me, ‘Help us this year,’ Meaning by us their ticket. ‘No,’ I says, ‘I can’t and won’t. You’ve been in long enough: It’s time you turned around and boosted us. You’ll have to pay me more than ten a week If I’m expected to elect Bill Taft. I doubt if I could do it anyway.’“ “You seem to shape the paper’s policy.” “You see I’m in with everybody, know ’em all. I almost know their farms as well as they do.” “You drive around? It must be pleasant work.” driving affect pleasure “It’s business, but I can’t say it’s not fun. What I like best’s the lay of different farms, Coming out on them from a stretch of woods, Or over a hill or round a sudden corner. I like to find folks getting out in spring, Raking the dooryard, working near the house. Later they get out further in the fields. Everything’s shut sometimes except the barn; The family’s all away in some back meadow. There’s a hay load a-coming—when it comes. And later still they all get driven in: The fields are stripped to lawn, the garden patches Stripped to bare ground, the apple trees To whips and poles. There’s nobody about. The chimney, though, keeps up a good brisk smoking. And I lie back and ride. I take the reins Only when someone’s coming, and the mare Stops when she likes: I tell her when to go. I’ve spoiled Jemima in more ways than one. She’s got so she turns in at every house As if she had some sort of curvature, No matter if I have no errand there. She thinks I’m sociable. I maybe am. It’s seldom I get down except for meals, though. Folks entertain me from the kitchen doorstep, All in a family row down to the youngest.” “One would suppose they might not be as glad To see you as you are to see them.” “Oh, Because I want their dollar. I don’t want Anything they’ve not got. I never dun. I’m there, and they can pay me if they like. I go nowhere on purpose: I happen by. Sorry there is no cup to give you a drink. I drink out of the bottle—not your style. Mayn’t I offer you——?” “No, no, no, thank you.” “Just as you say. Here’s looking at you then.— And now I’m leaving you a little while. You’ll rest easier when I’m gone, perhaps— Lie down—let yourself go and get some sleep. But first—let’s see—what was I going to ask you? Those collars—who shall I address them to, Suppose you aren’t awake when I come back?” “Really, friend, I can’t let you. You—may need them.” “Not till I shrink, when they’ll be out of style.” “But really I—I have so many collars.” “I don’t know who I rather would have have them. They’re only turning yellow where they are. But you’re the doctor as the saying is. I’ll put the light out. Don’t you wait for me: I’ve just begun the night. You get some sleep. I’ll knock so-fashion and peep round the door When I come back so you’ll know who it is. There’s nothing I’m afraid of like scared people. I don’t want you should shoot me in the head. What am I doing carrying off this bottle? There now, you get some sleep.” He shut the door. The Doctor slid a little down the pillow.  
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The Road +
Bibliographic Information Author Johnson, Helene Genre Poetry Journal or Book Opportunity: A Journal of Negro Life Publisher - Year of Publication 1926 Pages 225 Additional information - Ah, little road all whirry in the breeze, A leaping clay hill lost among the trees, The bleeding note of rapture streaming thrush Caught in a drowsy hush And stretched out in a single singing line of dusky song. road wind tree topography sound metaphor Ah little road, brown as my race is brown, Your trodden beauty like our trodden pride, Dust of the dust, they must not bruise you down. Rise to one brimming golden, spilling cry! affect dust road road condition African American scenery  +
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Dawn +
Bibliographic Information Author Aldington, Richard Genre Poetry Journal or Book - Publisher - Year of Publication 1928 Pages 67 Additional information - The grim dawn lightens thin bleak clouds; In the hills beyond the flooded meadows Lies death-pale, death-still mist. We trudge along wearily, Heavy with lack of sleep, Spiritless, yet with pretence of gaiety. The sun brings crimson to the colourless sky; Light shines from brass and steel; We trudge on wearily— Our unspoken prayer: "God, end this black and aching anguish Soon, with vivid crimson agonies of death, End it in mist-pale sleep."  +
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Sung by the Choir +
Bibliographic Information Author Reynolds, Elsbery Washington Genre Poetry Journal or Book AutoLine o'Type Publisher The Book Supply Company Year of Publication 1924 Pages 237 Additional information - Holy, holy, holy, sang the choir, From singing holy seemed to never tire, We were told it was an anthem grand, Sung in churches through the land. car part metaphor Much we’ve heard of Holy Writ, But never heard of singing it, It’s what the preacher talks about, The choir just holy, holy, shout. When the choir the anthem gave, Some we heard about it rave, All that we could understand, Was holy, holy, holy-land. Holy, holy, on they sang, The church with holy, holy, rang, They kept right on to holy sing, We thought a change the proper thing. The tenor holy, holy, holy, said, Until he seemed as nearly dead, Then holy, holy, sang the base, With holiness upon his face. Soprano had a holy time, The alto wasn’t far behind, Each had tried their vocal range, Still, from holy not a change. Through this anthem that we heard, But holy not another word, The song was just a lavish noise, To fill you with a lot of joys. They call this music very fine, Sung by the choir in perfect time, Here’s the music we prefer, A Studebaker engine’s purr. car model engine sound zoomorphism —The Car with Character.  +
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Quatrains +
Bibliographic Information Author Service, Robert William Genre Poetry Journal or Book Spell of the Yukon and Other Verses Publisher Barse & Hopkins Year of Publication 1907 Pages 59-60 Additional information - One said: Thy life is thine to make or mar, To flicker feebly, or to soar, a star; It lies with thee—the choice is thine, is thine, To hit the ties or drive thy auto-car. car metaphor metaphysics I answered Her: The choice is mine—ah, no! We all were made or marred long, long ago. The parts are written; hear the super wail: "Who is stage-managing this cosmic show?" Blind fools of fate and slaves of circumstance, Life is a fiddler, and we all must dance. From gloom where mocks that will-o'-wisp, Free-will I heard a voice cry: "Say, give us a chance." Chance! Oh, there is no chance! The scene is set. Up with the curtain! Man, the marionette, Resumes his part. The gods will work the wires. They've got it all down fine, you bet, you bet! It's all decreed—the mighty earthquake crash; The countless constellations' wheel and flash; The rise and fall of empires, war's red tide; The composition of your dinner hash. There's no haphazard in this world of ours. Cause and effect are grim, relentless powers. They rule the world. (A king was shot last night; Last night I held the joker and both bowers.) From out the mesh of fate our heads we thrust. We can't do what we would, but what we must. Heredity has got us in a cinch— (Consoling thought when you've been on a "bust.") Hark to the song where spheral voices blend: "There's no beginning, never will be end." It makes us nutty; hang the astral chimes! The table's spread; come, let us dine, my friend.  
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A Family Jar +
Bibliographic Information Author Reynolds, Elsbery Washington Genre Poetry Journal or Book AutoLine o'Type Publisher The Book Supply Company Year of Publication 1924 Pages 60-61 Additional information - We've always tried in every way To do our level best. We're guided by our better half In everything but rest. She says our light and humor lines Is not the stuff that mingles, If we would all men have them read, We must cut out the jingles. Our case we tried to argue And said you understand, To write each day as one would pray Is not at our command. Like other men we claim to be, With but a single mind, And what suits us will suit them, too, And other human kind. Every word of that I grant, She said without a pant. It fills your space from day to day If that’s your only slant. But you have cars and other things, That you have got to sell, Or else your space will be to let, And that you know, full well. car Another tack we took and tried To argue once again. Ver-sa-tile we did advance, Was like the sun and rain. But all we said with accent true, Rebounded in our face, We were left both deaf and dumb, We fell out of the race. We've tried it once, we’ve tried it twice, We've tried it many times. To argue with our better half, It’s cost us lots of dimes. A woman set, is hard to get, In threes or twos or singles. Her word was last, she said it fast, You'd best cut out the jingles. Taken from life—The “Ad” writer’s life.  +
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General disclaimer +
Die Universität Konstanz ist eine Körperschaft des öffentlichen Rechts. Sie wird vertreten durch die Rektorin Prof. Dr. Katharina Holzinger. Externe Links Die Universität Konstanz ist als Inhaltsanbieter für die eigenen Inhalte, die sie zur Nutzung bereit hält, nach den allgemeinen Gesetzen verantwortlich. Von diesen eigenen Inhalten sind Querverweise (externe Links) auf die von anderen Anbietern bereit gehaltenen Inhalte zu unterscheiden. Diese fremden Inhalte stammen nicht von der Universität Konstanz und spiegeln auch nicht die Meinung der Universität Konstanz wider, sondern dienen lediglich der Information. Die Universität Konstanz macht sich diese Inhalte nicht zu eigen. Sollten Inhalte von Web-Seiten der Universität Konstanz oder von verlinkten Seiten gegen geltende Rechtsvorschriften verstoßen, dann bitten wir um umgehende Benachrichtigung. Wir werden den Inhalt dann schnellstmöglich prüfen und geeignete Maßnahmen einleiten. Urheberrechtshinweis Die auf dieser Website veröffentlichten Inhalte (Texte, Bilder, Grafiken, Layout usw.) unterliegen in der Regel dem Schutz des Urheberrechts und dürfen damit beispielsweise weder kopiert, verändert noch auf anderen Webseiten verwendet werden. Jede vom Urheberrechtsgesetz nicht zugelassene Verwertung bedarf der vorherigen ausdrücklichen Zustimmung der Stabsstelle Kommunikation und Marketing. Anfragen richten Sie bitte an die Leiterin der Stabsstelle Kommunikation und Marketing, Helena Dietz .  +
General Disclaimer +
Die Universität Konstanz ist eine Körperschaft des öffentlichen Rechts. Sie wird vertreten durch die Rektorin Prof. Dr. Katharina Holzinger. Externe Links Die Universität Konstanz ist als Inhaltsanbieter für die eigenen Inhalte, die sie zur Nutzung bereit hält, nach den allgemeinen Gesetzen verantwortlich. Von diesen eigenen Inhalten sind Querverweise (externe Links) auf die von anderen Anbietern bereit gehaltenen Inhalte zu unterscheiden. Diese fremden Inhalte stammen nicht von der Universität Konstanz und spiegeln auch nicht die Meinung der Universität Konstanz wider, sondern dienen lediglich der Information. Die Universität Konstanz macht sich diese Inhalte nicht zu eigen. Sollten Inhalte von Web-Seiten der Universität Konstanz oder von verlinkten Seiten gegen geltende Rechtsvorschriften verstoßen, dann bitten wir um umgehende Benachrichtigung. Wir werden den Inhalt dann schnellstmöglich prüfen und geeignete Maßnahmen einleiten. Urheberrechtshinweis Die auf dieser Website veröffentlichten Inhalte (Texte, Bilder, Grafiken, Layout usw.) unterliegen in der Regel dem Schutz des Urheberrechts und dürfen damit beispielsweise weder kopiert, verändert noch auf anderen Webseiten verwendet werden. Jede vom Urheberrechtsgesetz nicht zugelassene Verwertung bedarf der vorherigen ausdrücklichen Zustimmung der Stabsstelle Kommunikation und Marketing. Anfragen richten Sie bitte an die Leiterin der Stabsstelle Kommunikation und Marketing, Helena Dietz .  +
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Lavell, Edith +
Gender Female Ethnicity/Race - Nationality American Life span 1892-? Texts from Lavell, Edith The Girl Scouts' Motor Trip  +
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Huntington, Julia Weld +
Gender Female Ethnicity/Race - Nationality - Life span - Texts from Huntington, Julia Weld Off the Highway  +
Hersey, Marie Louise +
Gender Female Ethnicity/Race - Nationality - Life span - Texts from Hersey, Marie Louise Provincetown  +
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Moore, Marianne +
Gender Female Ethnicity/Race - Nationality American Life span 1887-1972 Texts from Moore, Marianne People's Surroundings  +
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H.D. (Hilda Doolittle) +
Gender Female Ethnicity/Race Caucasian Nationality American Life span 1886-1961 Texts from H.D. (Hilda Doolittle) Cities  +
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Teasdale, Sara +
Gender Female Ethnicity/Race Caucasian Nationality American Life span 1884-1933 Texts from Teasdale, Sara May Day  +
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Lowell, Amy +
Gender Female Ethnicity/Race Caucasian Nationality American Life span 1874-1925 Texts from Lowell, Amy A South California Forest  +
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Parker, Dorothy +
Gender Female Ethnicity/Race Caucasian Nationality American Life span 1893-1967 Texts from Parker, Dorothy Finis  +
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Trinkle, Florence M. +
Gender Female Ethnicity/Race - Nationality American Life span - Texts from Trinkle, Florence M. Coast to Coast in a Brush Runabout  +
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