We cannot refrain from keeping steadily in our mind, nor can we keep from alluding to the splendid behavior of our troops during the past four days of incessant engagement with a desperate and determined enemy greatly outnumbering them. With the exception of but one single corps, two brigades of which, however, are entitled to credit, a corps which for the sake of its excellent commander we do not care to mention too harshly, our army have well and nobly performed their parts. The brilliant bayonet charges, where cold steel clashed with cold steel; the many sallies from the slight fortifications, and rushing against the enemy aimed a perfect torrent of shot and shell, grape and canister, are too numerous to be speedily mentioned, but are worth to be classed with the much-talked-of and world-renowned charge of the celebrated six hundred at Balaklava. Nobly have they battled for the cause of freedom, while the blood which has been spilled will still stronger cement the bonds of union, under which we have grown and prospered for nearly a century, while the name of the heroes of Gettysburg will ever be handed down to posterity by the side of those who fought, bled and died at Bunker Hill, Monmouth and Lexington.
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Read the following argumentative essays, "It's Time to Privatize," "They're not for Sale," "Promises, Promises," "Reinventing Nature," "The Trouble with Wilderness," "Missing Links," and "A Report from the General Accounting Office" from your packet and write down each writer's thesis and as many logical fallacies of presumption, ambiguity and relevance that you can find. Notice the difference between this informal, business and journalistic writing and the more refined academic and literary styles. Make sure your dress fits the occasion. Who is your audience? What are you trying to accomplish? How do you want to present yourself? Look through these poems for ideas and imagery about nature:What is a GardenAll day working happily down near the streambedthe light passing into the remote opalescenceit returns to as the year wakes toward wintera season of rain in a year already richin rain with masked light emerging on all sidesin the new leaves of the palms quietly wavingtime of mud and slipping and of overhearingthe water under the sloped ground going on whisperingas it travels time of rain thundering at nightand of rocks rolling and echoing in the torrentand of looking up after noon through the high branchesto see fine rain drifting across the sunlightover the valley that was abused and at last leftto fill with thickets of rampant aliensthat brought habits but no stories under the mango treesalready vast as clouds there I keep discoveringbeneath the tangle the ancient shaping of waterto which the light of an hour comes back as to a secretand there I planted young palms in places I had not pondereduntil then I imagined their roots setting out in the darkknowing without knowledge I kept trying to see them standingin that bend of the valley in the light that would come---W.S. Merwin The Cradle Logic of AutumnEach instant comes with a price, the blue-edged billon the draft of a bird almost incarnadine,the shanked ochre of an inn that sits as stillas the beavertail cactus it guards (the finerose of that flower gone as bronze as sand),the river's chalky white insistence as it moves past the gray afternoon toward sunset.Autumn feels the chill of a late summer litonly by goldenrod and a misplaced strandof blackberries; deplores all such sleight-of-hand;turns sullen, selfish, envious, full of regret.Someone more adept would mute its voice. The spillof its truncated experience would shineless bravely and, out of the dust and dunghillof this existence (call it hope, in decline),as here the blue light of autumn falls, commandwhat is left of exhiliration and fitthis season's unfolding to the alphabetof turn and counterturn, all that implicitarc of a heart searching for a place to stand.Yet even that diminished voice can withstandthe currying of its spirit. Here lies--not yet.If, and only if, the leafless rose he sees,or thinks he sees, flowered a moment ago,this endangered heart flows with the river that fleesthe plain, and listens with eye raised to the slowrevelation of cloud, hoping to approvehimself, or to admonish the rose for slighttransgressions of the past, this the ecstatic ethos, a logic that seems set to reporvehis facility with unsettling delight.Autumn might be only desire, a Twelvth-nightgone awry, a gift almost too emphatic.Logic in a faithful light somehow appeasesthe rose, and stirs the hummingbird's vibrato.By moving, I can stand where the light easesme into the river's feathered arms, and, so,with the heat of my devotion, again provedevotion, if not this moment, pure, finite.Autumn cradles me with idiomatic certainty, leaves me nothing to disapprove.I now acknowledge this red moon, to requitethe heart alone given power to reciteits faith, what a cradled life finds emblematic.---Jay Wright To AutumnSeasons of mist and mellow fruitfulness,Close bosom friend of the maturing sun;Conspiring with him how to load and blessWith fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;To swell the gourd and plump the hazel shellsWith a sweet kernel; to set budding more,And still more, later flowers for the bees,Until they think warm days will never cease,For summer has o'er-brimmed their clammy cells. Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may findThee sitting careless on a granary floor,Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hookSpares the next swath and all its twined flowers:And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keepSteady thy laden head across a brook;Or by a cider press, with patient look,Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.Where are the songs of Spring? Aye, where are they?Think not of them, thou hast thy music too--While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,And touch the stubble plains with rosy hue;Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mournAmong the river sallows, borne aloftOr sinking as the light wind lives or dies;And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;Hedge crickets sing; and now with treble softThe redbreast whistles from a garden-croft;And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.---John KeatsStopping by Woods on a Snowy EveningWhose woods these are I think I know.His house is in the village though;He will not see me stopping hereTo watch his woods fill up with snow.My little horse must think it queerTo stop without a farmhouse nearBetween the woods and frozen lakeThe darkest evening of the year.He gives his harness bells a shakeTo ask if there is some mistake.The only other sound's the sweepOf easy wind and downy flake.The woods are lovely, dark and deep,But I have promises to keep,And miles to go before I sleep,And miles to go before I sleep.--Robert FrostThe SnowstormAnnounced by all the trumpets of the sky,Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields,Seems nowhere to alight: the whited airHides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven,And veils the farm-house at the garden's end.The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feetDelayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sitAround the radiant fireplace, enclosedIn a tumultuous privacy of snow.Come see the north wind's masonry.Out of an unseen quarry evermoreFurnished with tile, the fierce artificerCurves his white bastions with projected roofRound every windward stake, or tree, or door.Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild workSo fanciful, so savage, nought cares heFor number or proportion. Mockingly,On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn;Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall,Maugre the farmer's sighs; and at the gateA tapering turret overtops the work.And when his hours are numbered, and the world Is all his own, retiring, as he were not,Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished ArtTo mimic in slow structures, stone by stone,Built in an age, the mad winds' night-work,The frolic architecture of the snow. --Ralph Waldo EmersonThe Negro Speaks of RiversI've known rivers:I've known rivers ancient as the world and older than the flow of human blood in human veins.My sould has grown deep like the rivers.I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young.I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep.I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it.I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincolnwent down to New Orleans, and I've seen its muddy bosom turn all golden in the sunset.I've known rivers:Ancient, dusky rivers.My soul has grown deep like the rivers. ---Langston Hughes This fragment from "Song of Myself" might stand as Whitman's credo, a credo that glorified the individual voice and united the cosmic with the commonplace, the microcosm and the macrocosm and humans and nature. I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journeywork of the stars,And the pismire is equally perfect, and a grain of sand, and the egg of the wren,And the tree-toad is a chef-d'oeuvre for the highest,And the running blackberry would adorn the parlors of heaven,And the narrowest hinge in my hand puts to scorn all machinery,And the cow crunching with depressed head surpasses any statue,And a mouse is miracle enough to stagger sextillions of infidels.For William Wordsworth, the contemplation of nature was a religious experience. Do you feel his view of nature in the poem "On the Beach at Calais" is accurate, too romantic, inspiring, similar to your own or completely deluded?It is a beauteous evening, calm and free;The holy time is quiet as a nunBreathless with adoration; the broad sunIs sinking down in its tranquility;The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the sea:Listen! the mighty Being is awake,And doth with his eternal motion makeA sound like thunder--everlastingly.Dear child! dear girl! that walkest with me here,If thou appear untouched by solemn though,Thy nature is not therefore less divine:Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year,And worship'st at the Temple's inner shrine,God being with thee when we know it not.Wordsworth's pantheism reaches its height in these lines:One impulse from a vernal woodMay teach you more of man,Of moral evil and of good,Than all the sages can. John Keats writes this credo in a letter to his publisher:"In poetry I have a few axioms, and you will see how far I am from their centre. First, I think poetry should surprise by a fine excess and not by singularity-- it should strike the reader as a wording of his own highest thoughts, and appear almost a remembrance. Second, its touches of beauty should never be halfway, thereby making the reader breathless instead of content. The rise, the progress, the setting of imagery should like the sun come natural to him-- shine over him and set soberly, although in magnificence, leaving him in the luxury of twilight. But it is easier to think what poetry should be than to write it-- and this leads me to another axiom. That if poetry comes not as naturally as the leaves to a tree it had better not come at all..." 2ff7e9595c
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