Henry David Thoreau

The Moon

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

Rumors from an Aeolian Harp

There is a vale which none hath seen, Where foot of man has never been, Such as here lives with toil and strife, An anxious and a sinful life. There every virtue has its

On Fields O'er Which the Reaper's Hand has Passed

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

Indeed, indeed, I cannot tell

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

What's the Railroad to Me

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.

They Who Prepare my Evening Meal Below

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

Conscience

Conscience is instinct bred in the house, Feeling and Thinking propagate the sin By an unnatural breeding in and in. I say, Turn it out doors, Into the moors. I love a life whose

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

I Knew A Man By Sight

I knew a man by sight, A blameless wight, Who, for a year or more, Had daily passed my door, Yet converse none had had with him. I met him in a lane, Him

The Inward Morning

Packed in my mind lie all the clothes Which outward nature wears, And in its fashion’s hourly change It all things else repairs. In vain I look for change abroad, And can no difference

Inspiration

Whate’er we leave to God, God does, And blesses us; The work we choose should be our own, God leaves alone. If with light head erect I sing, Though all the Muses lend their

I am the autumnal sun

Sometimes a mortal feels in himself Nature not his Father but his Mother stirs Within him, and he becomes immortal with her Immortality. From time to time she claims Kindredship with us, and some

Friendship

I think awhile of Love, and while I think, Love is to me a world, Sole meat and sweetest drink, And close connecting link Tween heaven and earth. I only know it is, not

Epitaph On The World

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;

Low-Anchored Cloud

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

Sic Vita

I am a parcel of vain strivings tied By a chance bond together, Dangling this way and that, their links Were made so loose and wide, Methinks, For milder weather. A bunch of violets

Let such pure hate still underprop

“Friends, Romans, Countrymen, and Lovers.” Let such pure hate still underprop Our love, that we may be Each other’s conscience, And have our sympathy Mainly from thence. We’ll one another treat like gods, And

The Summer Rain

My books I’d fain cast off, I cannot read, ‘Twixt every page my thoughts go stray at large Down in the meadow, where is richer feed, And will not mind to hit their proper

Prayer

Great God, I ask for no meaner pelf Than that I may not disappoint myself, That in my action I may soar as high As I can now discern with this clear eye. And

Within the Circuit of This Plodding Life

Within the circuit of this plodding life There enter moments of an azure hue, Untarnished fair as is the violet Or anemone, when the spring strews them By some meandering rivulet, which make The

Pray to What Earth

Pray to what earth does this sweet cold belong, Which asks no duties and no conscience? The moon goes up by leaps, her cheerful path In some far summer stratum of the sky, While