WALDEINSAMKEIT I Do not count the hours I spend The forest is my loyal friend, Like God it useth me. In plains that room for shadows make Of skirting hills to lie,, Bound in by streams which give and take Their colors from the sky; Or on the mountain-crest sublime, 8 Or down the oaken glade, O what have I to do with time? For this the day was made. Cities of mortals woe-begone 12 But in the serious landscape lone 16 Stern benefit abides. Sheen will tarnish, honey cloy, But, sober on a fund of joy, 20 There the great Planter plants And with a million spells enchants Still on the seeds of all he made The rose of beauty burns; Through times that wear and forms that fade, Immortal youth returns. The black ducks mounting from the lake, The pigeon in the pines, The bittern's boom, a desert make Which no false art refines. Down in yon watery nook, Where bearded mists divide, The gray old gods whom Chaos knew, Aloft, in secret veins of air, Blows the sweet breath of song, O, few to scale those uplands dare, 24 28 32 36 See thou bring not to field or stone The fancies found in books; Leave authors' eyes, and fetch your own, 44 1858. Oblivion here thy wisdom is, Ralph Waldo Emerson. 48 A STRIP OF BLUE I Do not own an inch of land, The orchard and the mowing-fields, Richer am I than he who owns I freight them with my untold dreams; Than ever India knew, My ships that sail into the East 36 Sometimes they seem like living shapes,- All souls find sailing-room. The ocean grows a weariness, Its east and west, its north and south, The sails, like flakes of roseate pearl, Float in upon the mist; The waves are broken precious stones, Sapphire and amethyst Washed from celestial basement walls, 48 |