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American contemporary of Eliot, greatly esteemed then but not so much now, is Carl Sandburg, who wrote in 1918 Grass Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo. Shovel them under and let me work - I am the grass; I cover all. And pile them high at Gettysburg And pile them high at Ypres and Verdun. Shovel them under and let me work. Two years, ten years, and passengers ask the conductor: What place is this? Where are we now? I am the grass. Let me work. It was one of his best-known poems. Mark At 02:23 PM 3/28/2006, you wrote: >>Thought I'd throw in a few dots to follow if you're interested :-) > >Yes, Thanks for these dots - much appreciated > >Whitman is actually the co-subject with Reznikoff of my troubled >troubled essay - the grass there is surely the anti-grass of Eliot's >dryness - Eliot prays for renewal, but Whitman is sure of it, the >cycle - in the Mahler, ewig, ewig... > >I'm really interested in writers who Create the grass as a style, >but then Eliot came in & crashed down on me - > >Whitman hears a territory singing, but What The Thunder Said hears >... grass over the tumbled graves - the dead singing? > >The Carlyle is v. interesting that he says "grass" and not "grain of >sand" - but grass & sand seem to conflate as ideas of "world flesh" > >My trouble is - if i pursue "grass" as a metaphor it will go >everywhere and i'd e the hopeless & hapless mower - > >Edmund