Poeticous Logo
fr
English Español Français Italiano
Henry David Thoreau

Henry David Thoreau

Salmon Brook

SALMON Brook,
Penichook,
Ye sweet waters of my brain,
When shall I look,
Or cast the hook,
In your waves again?
 
Silver eels,
Wooden creels,
These the baits that still allure,
And dragon-fly
That floated by,
May they still endure?

#Americans

Vous avez aimé cette lecture ? Offrez-nous un café !.
Votre aide nous permet d'exister.
Autres oeuvres par Henry David Thoreau...
Chaucer at the Court of Edward III, by Ford Madox Brown
Chaucer

What a contrast between the stern and desolate poetry of Ossian, and that of Chaucer, and even of Shakespeare and Milton, much more of Dryden, and Pope, and Gray. Our summer of English ...
On the Boat, by Claude Monet
Walden: Economy

When I wrote the following pages, or rather the bulk of them, I lived alone, in the woods, a mile from any neighbor, in a house which I had built myself, on the shore of Walden Pond, in...
The Poet’s Delay

IN vain I see the morning rise, In vain observe the western blaze, Who idly look to other skies, Expecting life by other ways. Amidst such boundless wealth witho…
I Am the Autumnal Sun

Sometimes a mortal feels in himsel… —not his Father but his Mother st… within him, and he becomes immorta… immortality. From time to time she… kindredship with us, and some glob…
A Yankee in Canada: V – The Scenery of Quebec; and the River St. Lawrence

About twelve o’clock this day, being in the Lower Town, I looked up at the signal-gun by the flagstaff on Cape Diamond, and saw a soldier up in the heavens there making preparations to ...
Conscience

Conscience is instinct bred in the… Feeling and Thinking propagate th… By an unnatural breeding in and in… I say, Turn it out doors, Into the moors.
 1
Nature

O Nature! I do not aspire To be the highest in thy choir, - To be a meteor in thy sky, Or comet that may range on high; Only a zephyr that may blow
My Life Has Been the Poem

My life has been the poem I would have writ, But I could not both live and utter it.
The Entombment of Mary, by Giotto di Bondone
Dark Ages

We should read history as little critically as we consider the landscape, and be more interested by the atmospheric tints, and various lights and shades which the intervening spaces cre...
 1
Autumn—On the Hudson River, by Jasper Francis Cropsey
Autumnal Tints

Europeans coming to America are surprised by the brilliancy of our autumnal foliage. There is no account of such a phenomenon in English poetry, because the trees acquire but few bright...
Walden: The Ponds

Sometimes, having had a surfeit of human society and gossip, and worn out all my village friends, I rambled still farther westward than I habitually dwell, into yet more unfrequented pa...
Walden: The Bean-Field

Meanwhile my beans, the length of whose rows, added together, was seven miles already planted, were impatient to be hoed, for the earliest had grown considerably before the latest were ...
Herald of Freedom

We have occasionally, for several years, met with a number of this spirited journal, edited, as abolitionists need not to be informed, by Nathaniel P. Rogers, once a counsellor at law i...
Idealized Portrait of the Poet Homer, by Unknown artist
Homer

The wisest definition of poetry the poet will instantly prove false by setting aside its requisitions. We can therefore publish only our advertisement of it. There is no doubt that the ...
Smoke

Light-winged Smoke, Icarian bird, Melting thy pinions in thy upward… Lark without song, and messenger o… Circling above the hamlets as they… Or else, departing dream, and shad…



Haut