Each And All
Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown,
Of thee, from the hill-top looking down;
And the heifer, that lows in the upland farm,
Far-heard, lows not thine ear to charm;
The sexton tolling the bell at noon,
Dreams not that great
Stops his horse, and lists with delight,
Whilst his files sweep round yon Alpine height;
Nor knowest thou what
Thy life to thy neighbor's creed has lent:
All are needed by each one,
Nothing is fair or good alone.
I thought the sparrow's note from heaven,
Singing at dawn on the alder bough;
I brought him home in his nest at even;—He sings the song, but it pleases not now;
For I did not bring home the river and sky;
He sang to my ear; they sang to my eye.
The delicate shells lay on the shore;
The bubbles of the latest
Fresh pearls to their enamel gave;
And the bellowing of the savage
Greeted their safe escape to me;
I wiped away the weeds and foam,
And fetched my sea-born treasures home;
But the poor, unsightly, noisome
Had left their beauty on the
With the sun, and the sand, and the wild uproar.
The lover watched his graceful
As 'mid the virgin train she strayed,
Nor knew her beauty's best
Was woven still by the snow-white quire;
At last she came to his hermitage,
Like the bird from the woodlands to the cage,—The gay enchantment was undone,
A gentle wife, but fairy none.
Then I said, "I covet Truth;
Beauty is unripe childhood's cheat,—I leave it behind with the games of youth."As I spoke, beneath my
The ground-pine curled its pretty wreath,
Running over the club-moss burrs;
I inhaled the violet's breath;
Around me stood the oaks and firs;
Pine cones and acorns lay on the ground;
Above me soared the eternal sky,
Full of light and deity;
Again I saw, again I heard,
The rolling river, the morning bird;—Beauty through my senses stole,
I yielded myself to the perfect whole.
Ralph Waldo Emerson
Other author posts
The World-Soul
Thanks to the morning light, Thanks to the seething sea, To the uplands of New Hampshire, To the green-haired forest free; Thanks to each man of courage, To the maids of holy mind, To the boy with his games undaunted, Who never look...
Merlin I
Thy trivial harp will never Or fill my craving ear; Its chords should ring as blows the breeze, Free, peremptory, clear
Hamatreya
Bulkeley, Hunt, Willard, Hosmer,
The Snowstorm
Announced by all the trumpets of the sky, Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields, Seems nowhere to alight: the whited Hides hill and woods, the river, and the heaven,