Robert Bloomfield

Shoemaker, poet and maker of aeolian harps

Music · MusicBrainz

Type: Person
Country: US
Active from: 1943-07-28
Active to: 1981-02-15

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Listeners · Last.fm

Listeners: 2
Total plays: 34

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Academic profile · OpenAlex

39h-index

Works: 178
Cited by: 8,023
ORCID: https://orcid.org/0000-0001-8752-8913

Research areas

PsychologyBusinessEconomicsComputer scienceFinance

Most cited works

Experimental research in financial accounting2002 · 1,222 cit
The “Incomplete Revelation Hypothesis” and Financial Reporting2002 · 677 cit
The “make or take” decision in an electronic market: Evidence on the evolution of liquidity2004 · 479 cit
Discussion of “Annual report readability, current earnings, and earnings persistence”2008 · 429 cit
Market Transparency: Who Wins and Who Loses?1999 · 406 cit

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Recent publications · Crossref

5 total works indexed

Development of the Colle-Salvetti correlation-energy formula into a functional of the electron density
· 1988 · cited 94,860x
Hallmarks of Cancer: The Next Generation
· 2011 · cited 55,816x
Research electronic data capture (REDCap)—A metadata-driven methodology and workflow process for providing translational research informatics support
· 2009 · cited 45,419x
Regression Shrinkage and Selection Via the Lasso
· 1996 · cited 38,849x
The PHQ-9
· 2001 · cited 38,226x

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Quotes

“A Spring o'erhung with many a flow'r,The grey sand dancing in its bed,Embank'd beneath a Hawthorn bower,Sent forth its waters near my head:A rosy Lass approach'd my view;I caught her blue eye's modest beam:The stranger nodded 'How d'ye do!'And leap'd across the infant stream.”
“Soon round us spread the hills and dales,Where GEOFFREY spun his magic tales,And call'd them history. The landWhence ARTHUR sprung, and all his bandOf gallant knights. Sire of romance,Who led the fancy's mazy dance,Thy tales shall please, thy name still be,When Time forgets my verse and me.”
“Adieu, LANDOGA, scene most dear,Farewell we bade to ETHEL'S WIER;Round many a point then bore away,Till morn was chang'd to beauteous day:And forward on the lowland shore,Silent majestic ruins woreThe stamp of holiness; this strandThe steersman hail'd, and touch'd the land.”
“Build me a shrine, and I could kneelTo rural Gods, or prostrate fall;Did I not see, did I not feel,That one Great Spirit governs all.O heaven, permit that I may lieWhere o’er my corse green branches wave;And those who from life’s tumults flyWith kindred feelings press my grave.”
“But how unlike to April’s closing days!High climbs the sun, and darts his powerful rays;Whitens the fresh drawn mould and pierces throughThe cumbrous clods that tumble round the plough.”
“Dear Ellen, your tales are all plenteously stored,With the joy of some bride and the wealth of her lord,Of her chariots and dresses,And worldly caresses,And servants that fly when she’s waited upon:But what can she boast if she weds unbeloved?Can she e’er feel the joy that one morning I proved,When I put on my new gown and waited for John?”