Bacchus (by: Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803 - 1882)) I thank the joyful juice For all I know; Winds of remembering Of the ancient being blow, And seeming-solid walls of use Open and flow. continue reading
Barberry Bush, The (by: Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803 - 1882)) The bush that has most briers and bitter fruit, Wait till the frost has turned its green leaves red, Its sweetened berries will thy palate suit... continue reading
Concord Hymne (by: Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803 - 1882)) By the rude bridge that arched the flood, Their flag to April's breeze unfurled, Here once the embattled farmers stood, And fired the shot heard round the world. continue reading
Days (by: Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803 - 1882)) Daughters of Time, the hypocritic Days, Muffled and dumb, like barefoot dervishes, And marching single in an endless file... continue reading
Days (by: Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803 - 1882)) Daughters of Time, the hypocritic Days, Muffled and dumb like barefoot dervishes, continue reading
Each And All (by: Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803 - 1882)) I inhaled the violet's breath; Around me stood the oaks and firs; Pine-cones and acorns lay on the ground; Over me soared the eternal sky, Full of light and of deity; continue reading
Give All To Love (by: Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803 - 1882)) Let it have scope: Follow it utterly, Hope beyond hope: High and more high It dives into noon, With wing unspent, Untold intent; continue reading
Problem, The (by: Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803 - 1882)) I like a church; I like a cowl; I love a prophet of the soul; And on my heart monastic aisles Fall like sweet strains, or pensive smiles... continue reading
Rhodora, The (by: Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803 - 1882)) Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why This charm is wasted on the earth and sky, Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing, Then Beauty is its own excuse for being: Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose! continue reading
Snow-Storm, The (by: Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803 - 1882)) Announced by all the trumpets of the sky, Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields, Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air Hides hill and woods, the river, and the heaven, And veils the farmhouse at the garden's end. continue reading
