John Adams thought today was to be celebrated as the most memorable day in the history of America

July 2, 1776 — The Second Continental Congress, assembled in Philadelphia, formally adopts Richard Henry Lee’s resolution for independence from Great Britain. The vote is unanimous, with only New York abstaining.

The resolution had originally been presented to Congress on June 7, but it soon became clear that New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Delaware, Maryland and South Carolina were as yet unwilling to declare independence, though they would likely be ready to vote in favor of a break with England in due course. Thus, Congress agreed to delay the vote on Lees Resolution until July 1. In the intervening period, Congress appointed a committee to draft a formal declaration of independence. Its members were John Adams of Massachusetts, Benjamin Franklinof Pennsylvania, Roger Sherman of Connecticut, Robert R. Livingston of New York and Thomas Jefferson of Virginia. Thomas Jefferson, well-known to be the best writer of the group, was selected to be the primary author of the document, which was presented to Congress for review on June 28, 1776.

On July 1, 1776, debate on the Lee Resolution resumed as planned, with a majority of the delegates favoring the resolution. Congress thought it of the utmost importance that independence be unanimously proclaimed. To ensure this, they delayed the final vote until July 2, when 12 colonial delegations voted in favor of it, with the New York delegates abstaining, unsure of how their constituents would wish them to vote. John Adams wrote that July 2 would be celebrated as the most memorable epoch in the history of America. Instead, the day has been largely forgotten in favor of July 4, when Jefferson’s edited Declaration of Independence was adopted.

Source: History.com

Recommended Reading

Milton, a name to resound for ages

Milton

BY ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

(Alcaics)

O mighty-mouth'd inventor of harmonies,

O skill'd to sing of Time or Eternity,

     God-gifted organ-voice of England,

          Milton, a name to resound for ages;

Whose Titan angels, Gabriel, Abdiel,

Starr'd from Jehovah's gorgeous armouries,

     Tower, as the deep-domed empyrean

          Rings to the roar of an angel onset—

Me rather all that bowery loneliness,

The brooks of Eden mazily murmuring,

     And bloom profuse and cedar arches

          Charm, as a wanderer out in ocean,

Where some refulgent sunset of India

Streams o'er a rich ambrosial ocean isle,

     And crimson-hued the stately palm-woods

          Whisper in odorous heights of even.

An acrostic in honor of Alice Pleasance Liddell

A Boat Beneath a Sunny Sky

BY LEWIS CARROLL

A boat beneath a sunny sky,

Lingering onward dreamily

In an evening of July —

Children three that nestle near,

Eager eye and willing ear,

Pleased a simple tale to hear —

Long has paled that sunny sky:

Echoes fade and memories die:

Autumn frosts have slain July.

Still she haunts me, phantomwise,

Alice moving under skies

Never seen by waking eyes.

Children yet, the tale to hear,

Eager eye and willing ear,

Lovingly shall nestle near.

In a Wonderland they lie,

Dreaming as the days go by,

Dreaming as the summers die:

Ever drifting down the stream —

Lingering in the golden gleam —

Life, what is it but a dream?

An abecedarian poem for “S”

A Poem for S.

BY JESSICA GREENBAUM

Because you used to leaf through the dictionary,

Casually, as someone might in a barber shop, and

Devotedly, as someone might in a sanctuary,

Each letter would still have your attention if not

For the responsibilities life has tightly fit, like

Gears around the cog of you, like so many petals

Hinged on a daisy. That’s why I’ll just use your

Initial. Do you know that in one treasured story, a

Jewish ancestor, horseback in the woods at Yom

Kippur, and stranded without a prayer book,

Looked into the darkness and realized he had

Merely to name the alphabet to ask forgiveness—

No congregation of figures needed, he could speak

One letter at a time because all of creation

Proceeded from those. He fed his horse, and then

Quietly, because it was from his heart, he

Recited them slowly, from aleph to tav. Within those

Sounds, all others were born, all manner of

Trials, actions, emotions, everything needed to

Understand who he was, had been, how flaws

Venerate the human being, how aspirations return

Without spite. Now for you, may your wife’s

X-ray return with good news, may we raise our

Zarfs to both your names in the Great Book of Life.

Source: Poetry (July/August 2012)

You whom I could not save / Listen to me

Dedication

BY CZESLAW MILOSZ

TRANSLATED BY CZESLAW MILOSZ

You whom I could not save

Listen to me.   

Try to understand this simple speech as I would be ashamed of another.   

I swear, there is in me no wizardry of words.   

I speak to you with silence like a cloud or a tree.

What strengthened me, for you was lethal.   

You mixed up farewell to an epoch with the beginning of a new one,   

Inspiration of hatred with lyrical beauty;   

Blind force with accomplished shape.

Here is a valley of shallow Polish rivers. And an immense bridge   

Going into white fog. Here is a broken city;   

And the wind throws the screams of gulls on your grave   

When I am talking with you.

What is poetry which does not save   

Nations or people?   

A connivance with official lies,   

A song of drunkards whose throats will be cut in a moment,   

Readings for sophomore girls.

That I wanted good poetry without knowing it,   

That I discovered, late, its salutary aim,   

In this and only this I find salvation.

They used to pour millet on graves or poppy seeds   

To feed the dead who would come disguised as birds.   

I put this book here for you, who once lived   

So that you should visit us no more.   

Warsaw, 1945

First of 300 rolls off the assembly line

On June 30, 1953, workers at a Chevrolet plant in Flint, Michigan, watch as the first completed Corvette, a two-seater sports car that would become an American icon, rolls off the assembly line. It was one of just 300 Corvettes made that year.

On the occasion of receiving my latest biopsy result

Skin Cancer

BY MARK JARMAN

Balmy overcast nights of late September;

Palms standing out in street light, house light;

Full moon penetrating the cloud-film

With an explosive halo, a ring almost half the sky;

Air like a towel draped over shoulders;

Lightness or gravity deferred like a moral question;

The incense in the house lit; the young people

Moving from the front door into the half-dark

And back, or up the stairs to glimpse the lovers’ shoes

Outside the master bedroom; the youngest speculating;

The taste of beer, familiar as salt water;

Each window holding a sea view, charcoal

With shifting bars of white; the fog filling in

Like the haze of distance itself, pushing close, blurring.

As if the passage into life were through such houses,

Surrounded by some version of ocean weather,

Lit beads of fog or wind so stripped it burns the throat;

Mildew-spreading, spray-laden breezes and the beach sun

Making each grain of stucco cast a shadow;

An ideal landscape sheared of its nostalgia;

S. with his black hair, buck teeth, unsunned skin,

Joking and disappearing; F. doing exactly the same

But dying, a corkscrew motion through green water;

And C. not looking back from the car door,

Reappearing beside the East River, rich, owned, smiling at last.

Swains. and nymphs. And news that came with the sea damp,

Of steady pipe-corrosions, black corners,

Moisture working through sand lots, through slab floors,

Slowly, with chemical, with molecular intricacy,

Then, bursting alive: the shrieked confessions

Of the wild parents; the cliff collapse; the kidnap;

The cache of photos; the letter; the weapon; the haunted dream;

The sudden close-up of the loved one’s degradation.

Weather a part of it all, permeating and sanctifying,

Infiltrating and destroying; the sun disc,

Cool behind the veil of afternoon cloud,

With sun spots like flies crawling across it;

The slow empurpling of skin all summer;

The glorious learned flesh and the rich pallor

Of the untouched places in the first nakedness;

The working of the lesion now in late life,

Soon to be known by the body, even the one

Enduring the bareness of the inland plains,

The cold fronts out of Canada, a sickness

For home that feels no different from health.