The Early Poems of Ralph Waldo Emerson

T. Y. Crowell, 1899 - 220 páginas
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Página 56 - ANNOUNCED by all the trumpets of the sky, Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields, Seems nowhere to alight : the whited air Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven, And veils the farm-house at the garden's end. The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed In a tumultuous privacy of storm.
Página 6 - Uprose the merry Sphinx, And crouched no more in stone ; She melted into purple cloud, She silvered in the moon ; She spired into a yellow flame ; She flowered in blossoms red ; She flowed into a foaming wave ; She stood Monadnoc's head. Thorough a thousand voices Spoke the universal dame : " Who telleth one of my meanings, Is master of all I am.
Página 46 - Where are these men? Asleep beneath their grounds: And strangers, fond as they, their furrows plough. Earth laughs in flowers, to see her boastful boys Earth-proud, proud of the earth which is not theirs; Who steer the plough, but cannot steer their feet Clear of the grave. They added ridge to valley, brook to pond, And sighed for all that bounded their domain; "This suits me for a pasture ; that's my park ; We must have clay, lime, gravel, granite-ledge, And misty lowland, where to go for peat.
Página 54 - Wiser far than human seer, Yellow-breeched philosopher ! Seeing only what is fair, Sipping only what is sweet, Thou dost mock at fate and care, Leave the chaff and take the wheat.
Página 103 - THOUGH loath to grieve The evil time's sole patriot, I cannot leave My honied thought For the priest's cant, Or statesman's rant. If I refuse My study for their politique, Which at the best is trick, The angry Muse Puts confusion in my brain. But who is he that prates Of the culture of mankind, Of better arts and life? Go, blindworm, go, Behold the famous States Harrying Mexico With rifle and with knife!
Página 219 - Up to his style, and manners of the sky. Not of adamant and gold Built he heaven stark and cold ; ; No, but a nest of bending reeds, Flowering grass and scented weeds , \ Or like a traveller's fleeing tent, Or bow above the tempest bent ; Built of tears and sacred flames, And virtue reaching to its aims; Built of furtherance and pursuing, Not of spent deeds, but of doing.
Página 52 - Insect lover of the sun, Joy of thy dominion! Sailor of the atmosphere, Swimmer through the waves of air, Voyager of light and noon, Epicurean of June, Wait I prithee, till I come Within ear-shot of thy hum, — All without is martyrdom.
Página 61 - Which breathes his sweet fame through the northern bowers. He heard, when in the grove, at intervals, With sudden roar the aged pine-tree falls, — One crash, the death-hymn of the perfect tree, Declares the close of its green century.
Página 213 - Who gazed upon the sun and moon As if he came unto his own, And, pregnant with his grander thought, Brought the old order into doubt. His beauty once their beauty tried ; They could not feed him, and he died, And wandered backward as in scorn, To wait an aeon to be born. Ill day which made this beauty waste, Plight broken, this high face defaced!

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