The Faber Book of Modern American Verse was a poetry anthology edited by W. H. Auden, and published in London in 1956 by Faber and Faber. Auden had moved from the UK to the USA in 1939, and had been directly involved in the American poetry scene, particularly through his time spent on the Yale Younger Poets.
Read more about Faber Book Of Modern American Verse: Poets in The Faber Book of Modern American Verse
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“If anybody comes to I,
I physics, bleeds, and sweats’em;
If, after that, they like to die,
Why, what care I, I lets ‘em.”
—Anonymous. “On Dr. Lettsom,” from Geoffrey Grigson’s Faber Book of Epigrams and Epitaphs (1977)
“If anybody comes to I,
I physics, bleeds, and sweats’em;
If, after that, they like to die,
Why, what care I, I lets ‘em.”
—Anonymous. “On Dr. Lettsom,” from Geoffrey Grigson’s Faber Book of Epigrams and Epitaphs (1977)
“Wha lies here?
I, Johnny Doo.
Hoo, Johnny, is that you?
Ay, man, but a’m dead noo.”
—Anonymous. “Johnny Doo,” from Geoffrey Grigson’s Faber Book of Epigrams and Epitaphs, Faber & Faber (1977)
“The trouble with writing a book about yourself is that you can’t fool around. If you write about someone else, you can stretch the truth from here to Finland. If you write about yourself the slightest deviation makes you realize instantly that there may be honor among thieves, but you are just a dirty liar.”
—Groucho Marx (1895–1977)
“Sir Walter Raleigh might well be studied, if only for the excellence of his style, for he is remarkable in the midst of so many masters. There is a natural emphasis in his style, like a man’s tread, and a breathing space between the sentences, which the best of modern writing does not furnish. His chapters are like English parks, or say rather like a Western forest, where the larger growth keeps down the underwood, and one may ride on horseback through the openings.”
—Henry David Thoreau (1817–1862)
“The American has dwindled into an Odd Fellow—one who may be known by the development of his organ of gregariousness.”
—Henry David Thoreau (1817–1862)
“My verse has brought me no roubles to spare:
no craftsmen have made mahogany chairs for my house.”
—Vladimir Mayakovsky (1893–1930)