On the poetic license it is the nineteenth century.<\/p>\n
A ship named Conventional Poetry<\/em> Nearby in a lifeboat In the balloons are words of enthusiasm about sailing to America,<\/p>\n the country where dawn is breaking and the Muse collapses Her balloon is so large it grazes the face of the farmer songs come out of the mouths out of the mouths of pioneers watching the figure of Columbia Oh Burgeoning Art that part the clouds, pointing to my name inscribed across the West in longhand.<\/p>\n -Wesley McNair<\/em><\/p>\n\n On the poetic license it is the nineteenth century. A ship named Conventional Poetry is just sinking on the horizon. Nearby in a lifeboat Form and Vision shake hands holding the strings of balloons between their lips. In the balloons are words of enthusiasm about sailing to America, the country where dawn is breaking and […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2341,"featured_media":0,"parent":0,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","template":"","meta":{"ngg_post_thumbnail":0,"footnotes":""},"builder_content":"","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/web.colby.edu\/csc-mcnair\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/3362"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/web.colby.edu\/csc-mcnair\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/web.colby.edu\/csc-mcnair\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/web.colby.edu\/csc-mcnair\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2341"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/web.colby.edu\/csc-mcnair\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=3362"}],"version-history":[{"count":4,"href":"https:\/\/web.colby.edu\/csc-mcnair\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/3362\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":3914,"href":"https:\/\/web.colby.edu\/csc-mcnair\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/3362\/revisions\/3914"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/web.colby.edu\/csc-mcnair\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=3362"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nis just sinking on the horizon.<\/p>\n
\nForm and Vision shake hands holding the strings
\nof balloons between their lips.<\/p>\n
\non the grave of Washington,
\nnaming the states.<\/p>\n
\nplowing far off in the field.
\nHe goes right on waving,<\/p>\n
\nof his wife and children,<\/p>\n
\nlift off the prairie and rise
\nhalf out of her robe.<\/p>\n
\nOh Poetry Yet To Be, they say,
\npointing to her breasts<\/p>\n
\npointing to the clouds,<\/p>\n