Ralph Waldo Emerson

Why should I keep holiday,
When other men have none
Why but because when these are gay,
I sit and mourn alone

By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
Their flag to April's breeze unfurled,
Here once the embattled farmers
And fired the shot heard round the world

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,

Burly dozing humblebee
Where thou art is clime for me
Let them sail for Porto Rique,
Far-off heats through seas to seek,

Thy trivial harp will never
Or fill my craving ear;
Its chords should ring as blows the breeze,
Free, peremptory, clear

Bulkeley,
Hunt,
Willard,
Hosmer,

Your picture smiles as first it smiled,
The ring you gave is still the same,
Your letter tells,
O changing child,

Mine are the night and morning,
The pits of air, the gulf of space,
The sportive sun, the gibbous moon,
The innumerable days

Sicut Patribus, sit Deus Nobis)The rocky nook with hilltops three Looked eastward from the farms,
And twice each day the flowing sea Took Boston in its arms;
The men of yore were stout and poor,
And sailed for bread to every shore

A ruddy drop of manly
The surging sea outweighs,
The world uncertain comes and goes;
The lover rooted stays

It fell in the ancient periods    Which the brooding soul surveys,
Or ever the wild Time coin'd itself    Into calendar months and days
This was the lapse of Uriel,
Which in Paradise befell

I serve you not, if you I follow,
Shadow-like, o'er hill and hollow,
And bend my fancy to your leading,
All too nimble for my treading

"May be true what I had heard,
Earth's a howling
Truculent with fraud and force,"Said I, strolling through the pastures,
And along the riverside

The mountain and the squirrel Had a quarrel;
And the former called the latter "Little Prig
" Bun replied, "You are doubtless very big;
But all sorts of things and weather Must be taken in together To make up a year An...

Thousand minstrels woke within me,
Our music's in the hills; —Gayest pictures rose to win me,
Leopard-colored rills
Up

Think me not unkind and rude That I walk alone in grove and glen;
I go to the god of the wood To fetch his word to men
Tax not my sloth that I Fold my arms beside the brook;
Each cloud that floated in the sky Writes a letter in my book