'their names are Shakespeare, Spenser, Chaucer, Herrick, Donne and Herbert. Their names are Milton, Wordsworth, Browning, Whitman, Keats and Heine —their names are Job, Ecclesiastes, Homer and The Song of Solomon.
These are their names, and if any man should think the glory of the earth has never been, let him live alone with them, a thousand nights of solitude and wonder, and they will reveal to him again the golden glory of the earth, which is the only earth that is, and is forever, and is the only earth that lives, and the only earth that will never die.’
Thomas Wolfe - Of Time and The River
in my dreams you walk dripping from a sea-journey on the highway across America in tears to the door of my cottage in the Western night.
Allen Ginsberg - Howl Pt. III
What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for I walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon.
In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations!
Where are we going, Walt Whitman?
The doors close in an hour.
Which way does your beard point tonight?
From Allen Ginsberg - A Supermarket in California
Arcade Fire - Here Comes The Night Time (Video)
KIDS OF THE APOCALYPSE - EMPIRE
Let be be finale of seem.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.
Wallace Stevens - The Emperor of Ice-Cream
Thief - Closer
A child said What is the grass?
fetching it to me with full hands;
How could I answer the child?
I do not know what it is any more than he.
Walt Whitman - Song Of Myself - From Leaves Of Grass
A noiseless patient spider,
I mark’d where on a little promontory it stood isolated,
Mark’d how to explore the vacant vast surrounding,
It launch'd forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself,
Ever unreeling them, ever tirelessly speeding them.
And you O my soul where you stand,
Surrounded, detached, in measureless oceans of space,
Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, seeking the spheres to connect them,
Till the bridge you will need be form’d, till the ductile anchor hold,
Till the gossamer thread you fling catch somewhere, O my soul.
Walt Whitman - A Noiseless Patient Spider
They slipped briskly into an intimacy from which they never recovered.
- F. Scott Fitzgerald
Bob Dylan and Johnny Cash - Girls From The North Country (Live)