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Best Famous Henry David Thoreau Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Henry David Thoreau poems. This is a select list of the best famous Henry David Thoreau poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Henry David Thoreau poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of henry david thoreau poems.

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by Henry David Thoreau | |

I am the autumnal sun

 Sometimes a mortal feels in himself Nature 
-- not his Father but his Mother stirs 
within him, and he becomes immortal with her
immortality.
From time to time she claims kindredship with us, and some globule from her veins steals up into our own.
I am the autumnal sun, With autumn gales my race is run; When will the hazel put forth its flowers, Or the grape ripen under my bowers? When will the harvest or the hunter's moon Turn my midnight into mid-noon? I am all sere and yellow, And to my core mellow.
The mast is dropping within my woods, The winter is lurking within my moods, And the rustling of the withered leaf Is the constant music of my grief.
.
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by Henry David Thoreau | |

Rumors from an Aeolian Harp

 There is a vale which none hath seen, 
Where foot of man has never been, 
Such as here lives with toil and strife, 
An anxious and a sinful life.
There every virtue has its birth, Ere it descends upon the earth, And thither every deed returns, Which in the generous bosom burns.
There love is warm, and youth is young, And poetry is yet unsung.
For Virtue still adventures there, And freely breathes her native air.
And ever, if you hearken well, You still may hear its vesper bell, And tread of high-souled men go by, Their thoughts conversing with the sky.


by Henry David Thoreau | |

Smoke

 Light-winged Smoke, Icarian bird,
Melting thy pinions in thy upward flight,
Lark without song, and messenger of dawn,
Circling above the hamlets as thy nest;
Or else, departing dream, and shadowy form
Of midnight vision, gathering up thy skirts;
By night star-veiling, and by day
Darkening the light and blotting out the sun;
Go thou my incense upward from this hearth,
And ask the gods to pardon this clear flame.


by Henry David Thoreau | |

Indeed indeed I cannot tell

 Indeed, indeed, I cannot tell,
Though I ponder on it well,
Which were easier to state,
All my love or all my hate.
Surely, surely, thou wilt trust me When I say thou dost disgust me.
O, I hate thee with a hate That would fain annihilate; Yet sometimes against my will, My dear friend, I love thee still.
It were treason to our love, And a sin to God above, One iota to abate Of a pure impartial hate.


by Henry David Thoreau | |

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.


by Henry David Thoreau | |

The Moon

 Time wears her not; she doth his chariot guide; 
Mortality below her orb is placed.
--Raleigh The full-orbed moon with unchanged ray Mounts up the eastern sky, Not doomed to these short nights for aye, But shining steadily.
She does not wane, but my fortune, Which her rays do not bless, My wayward path declineth soon, But she shines not the less.
And if she faintly glimmers here, And paled is her light, Yet alway in her proper sphere She's mistress of the night.


by Henry David Thoreau | |

Epitaph On The World

 Here lies the body of this world, 
Whose soul alas to hell is hurled.
This golden youth long since was past, Its silver manhood went as fast, An iron age drew on at last; 'Tis vain its character to tell, The several fates which it befell, What year it died, when 'twill arise, We only know that here it lies.


by Henry David Thoreau | |

Prayer

 Great God, I ask for no meaner pelf 
Than that I may not disappoint myself, 
That in my action I may soar as high 
As I can now discern with this clear eye.
And next in value, which thy kindness lends, That I may greatly disappoint my friends, Howe'er they think or hope that it may be, They may not dream how thou'st distinguished me.
That my weak hand may equal my firm faith And my life practice what my tongue saith That my low conduct may not show Nor my relenting lines That I thy purpose did not know Or overrated thy designs.


by Henry David Thoreau | |

I Knew A Man By Sight

 I knew a man by sight, 
A blameless wight, 
Who, for a year or more, 
Had daily passed my door, 
Yet converse none had had with him.
I met him in a lane, Him and his cane, About three miles from home, Where I had chanced to roam, And volumes stared at him, and he at me.
In a more distant place I glimpsed his face, And bowed instinctively; Starting he bowed to me, Bowed simultaneously, and passed along.
Next, in a foreign land I grasped his hand, And had a social chat, About this thing and that, As I had known him well a thousand years.
Late in a wilderness I shared his mess, For he had hardships seen, And I a wanderer been; He was my bosom friend, and I was his.
And as, methinks, shall all, Both great and small, That ever lived on earth, Early or late their birth, Stranger and foe, one day each other know.


by Henry David Thoreau | |

Whats the Railroad to Me

 What's the railroad to me?
I never go to see
Where it ends.
It fills a few hollows, And makes banks for the swallows, It sets the sand a-blowing, And the blackberries a-growing.


by Henry David Thoreau | |

Pray to What Earth

 Pray to what earth does this sweet cold belong,
Which asks no duties and no conscience?
The moon goes up by leaps, her cheerful path
In some far summer stratum of the sky,
While stars with their cold shine bedot her way.
The fields gleam mildly back upon the sky, And far and near upon the leafless shrubs The snow dust still emits a silver light.
Under the hedge, where drift banks are their screen, The titmice now pursue their downy dreams, As often in the sweltering summer nights The bee doth drop asleep in the flower cup, When evening overtakes him with his load.
By the brooksides, in the still, genial night, The more adventurous wanderer may hear The crystals shoot and form, and winter slow Increase his rule by gentlest summer means.


by Henry David Thoreau | |

On Fields Oer Which the Reapers Hand has Passed

 On fields o'er which the reaper's hand has pass'd
Lit by the harvest moon and autumn sun,
My thoughts like stubble floating in the wind
And of such fineness as October airs,
There after harvest could I glean my life
A richer harvest reaping without toil,
And weaving gorgeous fancies at my will
In subtler webs than finest summer haze.


by Henry David Thoreau | |

Low-Anchored Cloud

 Low-anchored cloud,
Newfoundland air,
Fountain-head and source of rivers,
Dew-cloth, dream-drapery,
And napkin spread by fays;
Drifting meadow of the air,
Where bloom the daisied banks and violets,
And in whose fenny labyrinth
The bittern booms and heron wades;
Spirit of lakes and seas and rivers,
Bear only perfumes and the scent
Of healing herbs to just men's fields!


by Henry David Thoreau | |

They Who Prepare my Evening Meal Below

 They who prepare my evening meal below
Carelessly hit the kettle as they go
With tongs or shovel,
And ringing round and round,
Out of this hovel
It makes an eastern temple by the sound.
At first I thought a cow bell right at hand Mid birches sounded o'er the open land, Where I plucked flowers Many years ago, Spending midsummer hours With such secure delight they hardly seemed to flow.