By Philip Levine
The foundation for the identify poem of Philip Levine's A stroll with Tom Jefferson is now not the founding father and 3rd president of the us that the majority readers may think upon listening to the identify. Levine's Tom Jefferson is kind of diversified from his namesake: he's an African American dwelling in a destitute zone of commercial Detroit. yet to Levine, he's "wise, compassionate, planned, honest...a nice unknown American." In A stroll with Tom Jefferson, Philip Levine reminds us why he's most sensible recognized for his poems approximately working-class existence in Detroit--and why such a lot of humans count number a Levine poem between their favorites.
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Mary Evelyn David, writing under the pen name of Mollie E. " This Southern poet obviously is less interested in describing factually the course of a bloody encounter which took thirty thousand casualties in dead and wounded than in focusing attention on battle as a prelude to death. 21 THE POETRY OF THE AMERICAN CIVIL WAR The poem is from Minding The Gap and Other Poems (Houston, 186 7). CHICKAMAUGA The sharp, clear crack of rifles, and the deep Loud thunder of artillery; the flash Of bayonets, and the arrowy sweep Of keen-edged sabres; the most fearful clash Of meeting squadrons, and the pride Of hostile banners!
A Poem by a Lady oj Georgia was published in Charleston during 1866. DESTRUCTION OF COLUMBIA Methinks there'll be emblazoned on the dismal walls of Hell, A record base, whose fiery words of fiendish deeds will tell, Through ages of eternal woe, to demons black with crime, How once on earth degraded men o'erleaped the bounds of time, And though they dwelt in human flesh, incarnate devils turned, When maddened by infernal hate, they plundered, killed and burned, Methinks the "Prince of Darkness" with a wild sardonic grin, Will point exultant to a crime that won the prize from sin, And glory in a monument that tells his direful sway, O'er Northmen, who with burning torch swept happy homes away.
There had you seen, by the star-light dim, Five hundred faces strong and grimThe Flag is going under fire! Right up by the fort, with her helm hard-a-port, The Hartford is going under fire! The way to our work was plain, Caldwell had broken the chain, (Two hulks swung down amain, Soon as 'twas sundered)Under the night's dark blue, Steering steady and true, Ship after ship went throughTill, as we hove in view, Jackson out-thundered. -ah, then, Could you have seen our men, How they sprung, in the dim night haze, To their work of toil and of clamor!