For all those who have criticized my use of the words "catacorner" and "catty-corner" instead of "kitty-corner":

For all those who have criticized my use of the words catacorner and catty-corner instead of kitty-corner: The etymology of kitty-corner is that it originally came into American English as catercorner. The first part of the word was derived from quatre, Middle French for four. Everyday users of the term thought they detected analogy to the domestic feline; hence, cater- soon became catty- and eventually kitty-. In all cases of judgement, catercorner is considered the most proper. All forms are considered Americanisms and contemporary use is most common to the American Midwest. Some sources do speculate that kitty-corner is more common in Western and Northern portions of the Midwest whileas catty-corner is more common to the Eastern and Southern Midwest, which would fit with my criticism coming from Minnesota and Canada whileas I grew up in Chicago.

America (by Walt Whitman)

America

by Walt Whitman

Centre of equal daughters, equal sons,

All, all alike endear'd, grown, ungrown, young or old,

Strong, ample, fair, enduring, capable, rich,

Perennial with the Earth, with Freedom, Law and Love,

A grand, sane, towering, seated Mother,

Chair'd in the adamant of Time.

America (by Claude McKay)

America

by Claude McKay

Although she feeds me bread of bitterness,

And sinks into my throat her tiger's tooth,

Stealing my breath of life, I will confess

I love this cultured hell that tests my youth!

Her vigor flows like tides into my blood,

Giving me strength erect against her hate.

Her bigness sweeps my being like a flood.

Yet as a rebel fronts a king in state,

I stand within her walls with not a shred

Of terror, malice, not a word of jeer.

Darkly I gaze into the days ahead,

And see her might and granite wonders there,

Beneath the touch of Time's unerring hand,

Like priceless treasures sinking in the sand.

I Hear America Singing

I Hear America Singing

by Walt Whitman

I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear,

Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe and strong,

The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam,

The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work,

The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the deckhand singing on the steamboat deck,

The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing as he stands,

The wood-cutter's song, the ploughboy's on his way in the morning, or at noon intermission or at sundown,

The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work, or of the girl sewing or washing,

Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else,

The day what belongs to the day—at night the party of young fellows, robust, friendly,

Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.

Tragedy

" Greek tragedy met her death in a different way from all the older sister arts: she died tragically by her own hand, after irresolvable conflicts, while the others died happy and peaceful at an advanced age. If a painless death, leaving behind beautiful progeny, is the sign of a happy natural state, then the endings of the other arts show us the example of just such a happy natural state: they sink slowly, and with their dying eyes they behold their fairer offspring, who lift up their heads in bold impatience. The death of Greek tragedy, on the other hand, left a great void whose effects were felt profoundly, far and wide; as once Greek sailors in Tiberius' time heard the distressing cry 'the god Pan is dead' issuing from a lonely island, now, throughout the Hellenic world, this cry resounded like an agonized lament: 'Tragedy is dead! Poetry itself died with i! Away, away with you, puny, stunted imitators! Away with you to Hades, and eat your fill of the old masters' crumbs!' "