Written by
Ralph Waldo Emerson |
Give me truths;
For I am weary of the surfaces,
And die of inanition. If I knew
Only the herbs and simples of the wood,
Rue, cinquefoil, gill, vervain and agrimony,
Blue-vetch and trillium, hawkweed, sassafras,
Milkweeds and murky brakes, quaint pipes and sun-dew,
And rare and virtuous roots, which in these woods
Draw untold juices from the common earth,
Untold, unknown, and I could surely spell
Their fragrance, and their chemistry apply
By sweet affinities to human flesh,
Driving the foe and stablishing the friend,--
O, that were much, and I could be a part
Of the round day, related to the sun
And planted world, and full executor
Of their imperfect functions.
But these young scholars, who invade our hills,
Bold as the engineer who fells the wood,
And traveling often in the cut he makes,
Love not the flower they pluck, and know it not,
And all their botany is Latin names.
The old men studied magic in the flowers,
And human fortunes in astronomy,
And an omnipotence in chemistry,
Preferring things to names, for these were men,
Were unitarians of the united world,
And, wheresoever their clear eye-beams fell,
They caught the footsteps of the SAME. Our eyes
And strangers to the mystic beast and bird,
And strangers to the plant and to the mine.
The injured elements say, 'Not in us;'
And haughtily return us stare for stare.
For we invade them impiously for gain;
We devastate them unreligiously,
And coldly ask their pottage, not their love.
Therefore they shove us from them, yield to us
Only what to our griping toil is due;
But the sweet affluence of love and song,
The rich results of the divine consents
Of man and earth, of world beloved and lover,
The nectar and ambrosia, are withheld;
And in the midst of spoils and slaves, we thieves
And pirates of the universe, shut out
Daily to a more thin and outward rind,
Turn pale and starve. Therefore, to our sick eyes,
The stunted trees look sick, the summer short,
Clouds shade the sun, which will not tan our hay,
And nothing thrives to reach its natural term;
And life, shorn of its venerable length,
Even at its greatest space is a defeat,
And dies in anger that it was a dupe;
And, in its highest noon and wantonness,
Is early frugal, like a beggar's child;
Even in the hot pursuit of the best aims
And prizes of ambition, checks its hand,
Like Alpine cataracts frozen as they leaped,
Chilled with a miserly comparison
Of the toy's purchase with the length of life.
|
Written by
Mark Van Doren |
Equality is absolute or no.
Nothing between can stand. We are the sons
Of the same sire, or madness breaks and runs
Through the rude world. Ridiculous our woe
If single pity does not love it. So
Our separate fathers love us. No man shuns
His poorest child's embrace. We are the sons
Of such, or ground and sky are soon to go.
Nor do born brothers judge, as good or ill,
Their being. Each consents and is the same,
Or suddenly sweet winds turn into flame
And floods are on us--fire, earth, water, air
All hideously parted, as his will
Withdraws, no longer fatherly and there.
|
Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET CX. Come talora al caldo tempo suole. HE LIKENS HIMSELF TO THE INSECT WHICH, FLYING INTO ONE'S EYES, MEETS ITS DEATH. As when at times in summer's scorching heats.Lured by the light, the simple insect flies,As a charm'd thing, into the passer's eyes,Whence death the one and pain the other meets,Thus ever I, my fatal sun to greet,Rush to those eyes where so much sweetness liesThat reason's guiding hand fierce Love defies,And by strong will is better judgment beat.I clearly see they value me but ill,[Pg 140]And, for against their torture fails my strength.That I am doom'd my life to lose at length:But Love so dazzles and deludes me still,My heart their pain and not my loss laments,And blind, to its own death my soul consents. Macgregor.
|
Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET LXXVI. Ahi bella libertà, come tu m' hai. HE DEPLORES HIS LOST LIBERTY AND THE UNHAPPINESS OF HIS PRESENT STATE. Alas! fair Liberty, thus left by thee,Well hast thou taught my discontented heartTo mourn the peace it felt, ere yet Love's dartDealt me the wound which heal'd can never be;Mine eyes so charm'd with their own weakness growThat my dull mind of reason spurns the chain;All worldly occupation they disdain,Ah! that I should myself have train'd them so.Naught, save of her who is my death, mine earConsents to learn; and from my tongue there flowsNo accent save the name to me so dear;Love to no other chase my spirit spurs,No other path my feet pursue; nor knowsMy hand to write in other praise but hers. Macgregor. Alas, sweet Liberty! in speeding hence,Too well didst thou reveal unto my heart[Pg 94]Its careless joy, ere Love ensheathed his dart,Of whose dread wound I ne'er can lose the senseMy eyes, enamour'd of their grief intense,Did in that hour from Reason's bridle start,Thus used to woe, they have no wish to part;Each other mortal work is an offence.No other theme will now my soul contentThan she who plants my death, with whose blest nameI make the air resound in echoes sweet:Love spurs me to her as his only bent,My hand can trace nought other but her fame,No other spot attracts my willing feet.
|