#Americans #Activities #ArtsAndSciences #LandscapesAnd#Pastorals #Nature #SocialCommentaries #TravelsAndJourneys & Country Life Philo#Aphorism Town sophy
Announced by all the trumpets of t… Arrives the snow, and, driving o’e… Seems nowhere to alight: the white… Hides hills and woods, the river,… And veils the farm—house at the ga…
I cannot spare water or wine, Tobacco—leaf, or poppy, or rose; From the earth—poles to the Line, All between that works or grows, Every thing is kin of mine.
I rake no coffined clay, nor publi… The resurrection of departed pride… Safe in their ancient crannies, da… Let kings and conquerors, saints a… Late in the world,—too late percha…
The living Heaven thy prayers res… House at once and architect, Quarrying man’s rejected hours, Builds therewith eternal towers; Sole and self—commanded works,
Because I was content with these… Low open meads, slender and sluggi… And found a home in haunts which o… The partial wood—gods overpaid my… And granted me the freedom of thei…
HENCEFORTH, please God, fore… The yoke of men’s opinions. I wil… Light—hearted as a bird, and live… I find him in the bottom of my hea… I hear continually his voice there…
In May, when sea-winds pierced ou… I found the fresh Rhodora in the… Spreading its leafless blooms in a… To please the desert and the slugg… The purple petals, fallen in the p…
Good Heart, that ownest all! I ask a modest boon and small: Not of lands and towns the gift,— Too large a load for me to lift,— But for one proper creature,
If the red slayer think he slays, Or if the slain think he is slain, They know not well the subtle ways I keep, and pass, and turn again. Far or forgot to me is near;
I heard or seemed to hear the chid… Say, Pilgrim, why so late and slo… Am I not always here, thy summer… Is not my voice thy music, morn an… My breath thy healthful climate in…
Set not thy foot on graves; Hear what wine and roses say; The mountain chase, the summer wav… The crowded town, thy feet may wel… Set not thy foot on graves;
Was never form and never face So sweet to SEYD as only grace Which did not slumber like a stone… But hovered gleaming and was gone. Beauty chased he everywhere,
Give to barrows, trays, and pans Grace and glimmer of romance; Bring the moonlight into noon Hid in gleaming piles of stone; On the city’s paved street
Trees in groves, Kine in droves, In ocean sport the scaly herds, Wedge—like cleave the air the bird… To northern lakes fly wind—borne d…
I am the Muse who sung alway By Jove, at dawn of the first day… Star—crowned, sole—sitting, long… To fire the stagnant earth with th… On spawning slime my song prevails…