Property:Has text
From Off the Road Database
This is a property of type Text.
C
<div class="poem">
<p>The old road had been abandoned for years, a cog road and burro trail having taken its place, and the present boulevard was not built until eight or nine years later.
</p>
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T
<div class="poem">
<p>The open road’s a pleasure to the heart,<br />
When underneath the hood is sixty horse;<br />
I wait the moment when I may depart,<br />
To roll along the smooth and level course.
</p>
</div> +
B
<div class="poem">
<p>The opening window, closing door, <br />
Open, close, but not <br />
To finish or restore; <br />
These wishes get <br />
No further than <br />
The edges of the town, <br />
And leaning asking from the car <br />
Cannot tell us where we are; <br />
While the divided face<br />
Has no grace, <br />
No discretion,<br />
No occupation <br />
But registering <br />
Acreage, mileage, <br />
The easy knowledge <br />
Of the virtuous thing.
</p>
</div> +
T
<div class="poem">
<p>The other girls were just as enthusiastic, and they discussed the affair from every angle, while they drank Marjorie’s tea and nibbled at some nabiscoes which Lily produced from her cake box. When they came to the selection of a chaperone, they were all unanimous in their desire to have Mrs. Remington.<br />
“But would she leave her husband for such a long time?” asked Lily, doubtfully.<br />
“It wouldn’t be a question of leaving him,” answered Marjorie. “Because he has to go to some sort of Boy Scout camp this summer for the months of July and August—she told me about it in her last letter. So she might be very glad of the invitation.”<br />
“Then that settles that,” said Alice. “Marj, will you write immediately?”<br />
“I certainly will, and I’ll write home for permission for myself at the same time.”<br />
“Marj!” exclaimed Lily, suddenly. “What about the Hadleys? Didn’t you promise that you’d go to the seashore—?”
</p>
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P
<div class="poem">
<p>The palace furniture, so old-fashioned, so old-fashionable;<br />
Sèvres china and the fireplace dogs—<br />
bronze dromios with pointed ears, as obsolete as pugs;<br />
one has one’s preferences in the matter of bad furniture,<br />
and this is not one’s choice,
</p>
</div> +
T
<div class="poem">
<p>The people pass through the dust<br />
On bicycles, in carts, in motor-cars;<br />
The waggoners go by at dawn;<br />
The lovers walk on the grass path at night.
</p>
</div> +
<div class="poem">
<p>The phonographs of hades in the brain<br />
Are tunnels that re-wind themselves, and love<br />
A burnt match skating in a urinal—<br />
Somewhere above Fourteenth TAKE THE EXPRESS<br />
To brush some new presentiment of pain—
</p>
</div> +
<div class="poem">
<p>The place to us was one of splendor,<br />
And cherished yet in our memory tender,<br />
And the glory of that first Christmas tree,<br />
Where the old homestead used to be.
</p>
</div> +
<div class="poem">
<p>The preacher replied, "My siste' host,<br />
You's get on de side o' de Holy Ghost.<br />
He'll look down deep in yo' po' ol' heart,<br />
You'll sho' beat de dev'l if yo' do yo' part."
</p>
</div> +
<div class="poem">
<p>The rushing of racing motor boats,<br />
Our mind no longer on them dotes.<br />
Flying through water has not the appeal,<br />
Of a Six Studebaker steering wheel.
</p>
</div> +
M
<div class="poem">
<p>The shining line of motors,<br />
The swaying motor-bus,<br />
The prancing dancing horses<br />
Are passing by for us.
</p>
</div> +
F
<div class="poem">
<p>The siren of the springs of guilty song—<br />
Let us take her on the incandescent wax<br />
Striated with nuances, nervosities<br />
That we are heir to: she is still so young,<br />
We cannot frown upon her as she smiles,<br />
Dipping here in this cultivated storm<br />
Among slim skaters of the gardened skies.
</p>
</div> +
T
<div class="poem">
<p>The smile and song and the merry laughter,<br />
That rang from the cellar clear to the rafter,<br />
Each loved one's face we yet can see,<br />
Where the old homestead used to be.
</p>
</div> +
<div class="poem">
<p>The snow outside the church was deep,<br />
Inside were shouts while some did weep.<br />
The preacher's voice above the din,<br />
Proclaimed to all their awful sin.
</p>
</div> +
<div class="poem">
<p>The stars have grooved our eyes with old persuasions<br />
Of love and hatred, birth,—surcease of nations...<br />
But who has held the heights more sure than thou,<br />
O Walt!—Ascensions of thee hover in me now<br />
As thou at junctions elegiac, there, of speed<br />
With vast eternity, dost wield the rebound seed!<br />
The competent loam, the probable grass,—travail<br />
Of tides awash the pedestal of Everest, fail<br />
Not less than thou in pure impulse inbred<br />
To answer deepest soundings! O, upward from the dead<br />
Thou bringest tally, and a pact, new bound,<br />
Of living brotherhood!
</p>
</div> +
A
<div class="poem">
<p>The storm that day caused us to speculate largely as to whether some of the many bolts of lightning hitting close around us would not strike the machine, demolish it completely, and incidentally put the operator and passenger out of business.
</p>
</div> +
D
<div class="poem">
<p>The sun brings crimson to the colourless sky;<br />
Light shines from brass and steel;<br />
We trudge on wearily—<br />
Our unspoken prayer:<br />
"God, end this black and aching anguish<br />
Soon, with vivid crimson agonies of death,<br />
End it in mist-pale sleep."
</p>
</div> +
C
<div class="poem">
<p>The sun had melted the snow, making the road so slippery we slid off several times, stalling often in the six miles to Walcott. We had to dig out the flywheel each time, shoveling earth and packing it under the wheels to raise the car and free the flywheel. We finally reached the town for lunch, wondering how far we could go that day over such roads. We were often in mud so thick that it clung to our boots so we could hardly walk.
</p>
</div> +
M
<div class="poem">
<p>The sunlight on the steeple,<br />
The toys we stop to see,<br />
The smiling passing people<br />
Are all for you and me.
</p>
</div> +
X
<div class="poem">
<p>The supreme importance<br />
of this nameless spectacle
</p>
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