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Henry David Thoreau Short Poems

Famous Short Henry David Thoreau Poems. Short poetry by famous poet Henry David Thoreau. A collection of the all-time best Henry David Thoreau short poems


by Henry David Thoreau
 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
 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
 My life has been the poem I would have writ, 
But I could not both live and utter it.

by Henry David Thoreau
 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
 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
 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
 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.



Smoke  Create an image from this poem
by Henry David Thoreau
 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
 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.


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