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Updated: May 3, 2025
They have been faithless to the Great Potato Tradition! "No motion has she now, no force; She does not hear or feel; Roll'd round on earth's diurnal course In some one's Oldsmobile." CHARLES: Back to the soil, yes! I've been trying to turn my back to the soil for ten years! ANOTHER CHILD: The farmers may be the backbone of the country, but who wants to be a backbone?
Their Hair is roll'd up, on each Ear, as the Womens, only much shorter, and oftentimes a Roll on the Crown of the Head, or Temples, which is just as they fancy; there being no Strictness in their Dress. Betwixt their Legs comes a Piece of Cloth, that is tuck'd in by a Belt both before and behind.
A twist of gold was round her hair; a robe Of samite without price, that more exprest Than hid her, clung about her lissome limbs, In colour like the satin-shining palm On sallows in the windy gleams of March: And while she kiss'd them, crying, 'Trample me, Dear feet, that I have follow'd thro' the world, And I will pay you worship; tread me down And I will kiss you for it'; he was mute: So dark a forethought roll'd about his brain, As on a dull day in an Ocean cave The blind wave feeling round his long sea-hall In silence."
Oft had he lit with thirsty lip Some flower-cup's nectar'd sweets to sip, When on smooth petals he would slip, Or over tangled stamens trip, And headlong in the pollen roll'd, Crawl out quite dusted o'er with gold; Or else his heavy feet would stumble Against some bud, and down he'd tumble Amongst the grass; there lie and grumble In low, soft bass poor maudlin bumble!
Full in the midst a mighty pile arose, Where iron grated gates their strength oppose To each invading step and strong and steep, The battled walls arose, the fosse sunk deep. Slow round the fortress roll'd the sluggish stream, And high in middle air the warder's turrets gleam.
That weight of wood, with leathern coat o'erlaid, Those ample clasps of solid metal made, The close-press'd leaves unoped for many an age, The dull red edging of the well-fill'd page, On the broad back the stubborn ridges roll'd, Where yet the title stands in tarnish'd gold.
And wider still those billows of war Thundered along the horizon's bar; And louder yet into Winchester roll'd The road of that red sea uncontroll'd, Making the blood of the listener cold, As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray, And Sheridan twenty miles away.
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