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From THE GREEN BOOK OF BARDS

BLISS CARMAN

One day as I sat and suffered,
A long discourse upon sin,
At the door of my brain I listened
And heard this speech within:

One whisper of the Holy Ghost

Outweighs for me a thousand tones;
And I must heed that private word,
Not Plato's, Swedenborg's, nor Rome's.

The voice of beauty and of power
Which came to the beloved John

In age upon his lonely isle,

That voice I will obey, or none.

Let not tradition fill my ears

With prate of evil and of good. Nor superstition cloak my sight Of beauty with a bigot's hood.

Give me the freedom of the earth,
The leisure of the light and air,
That this enduring soul some part
Of their serenity may share!

The word that lifts the purple shaft
Of crocus and of hyacinth

Is more to me than platitudes

Rethundering from groin and plinth.

And at the first clear, careless strain

Poured from the wood-bird's silver throat

I have forgotten all the lore

The preacher bade me get by rote.

Beyond the shadow of the porch,
I hear the wind among the trees
The river babbling in the cove

And the great sound that is the seas.

Let me have brook and flower and bird

For counselors, that I may learn The very accent of their tongue, And its least syllable discern.

For I, my brother, so would live
That I may keep the elder law

Of beauty and of certitude,

By daring love and blameless awe.

SOME KEEP SUNDAY GOING TO CHURCH

EMILY DICKINSON

Some keep Sunday going to church

I keep it staying at home,

With a bobolink for a chorister,

And an orchard for a throne.

Some keep Sabbath in surplice,

I just wear my wings

And instead of tolling the bell for church,
Our little sexton sings.

God preaches, a noted clergyman,

And the sermon is never long,

So instead of going to heaven at last

I'm going all along.

FORBEARANCE

RALPH WALDO EMERSON

Hast thou named all the birds without a gun?
Loved the wood-rose, and left it in its stalk?
At rich men's tables eaten bread and pulse?
Unarmed, faced danger with a heart of trust?
And loved so well a high behavior,

In man or maid, that thou from speech refrained,
Nobility more nobly to repay?

O, be my friend, and teach me to be thine!

GOOD-BYE, PROUD WORLD

RALPH WALDO EMERSON

GOOD-BYE, proud world! I'm going home:
Thou art not my friend, and I'm not thine.
Long through thy weary crowds I roam;
A river ark on the ocean brine,

Long I've been tossed by the driven foam;
But now, proud world! I'm going home.

Good-bye to Flattery's fawning face;
To Grandeur with his wise grimace;
To upstart Wealth's averted eye;
To supple Office, low and high;
To crowded halls, to court and street;

To frozen hearts and hasting feet;

To those who go and those who come;
Good-bye, proud world! I'm going home.

I'm going to my own hearth stone,
Bosomed in yon green hills alone,-
A secret nook in a pleasant land,
Whose groves the frolic fairies planned;
Where arches green, the livelong day,

Echo the blackbird's roundelay,
And vulgar feet have never trod

A spot that is sacred to thought and God.

O, when I am safe in my sylvan home,
I tread on the pride of Greece and Rome;
And when I am stretched beneath the pines,
Where the evening star so holy shines,

I laugh at the lore and the pride of man,
At the sophist schools and the learned clan;
For what are they all, in their high conceit,
When man in the bush with God may meet?

From THE POET

RALPH WALDO EMERSON

Let me go where'er I will
I hear a sky-born music still:
It sounds from all things old,

It sounds from all things young,

From all that's fair, from all that's foul, Peals out a cheerful song.

It is not only in the rose,

It is not only in the bird,

Not only where the rainbow glows,

Nor in the song of woman heard,
But in the darkest, meanest things
There always, always something sings.
'Tis not in the high stars alone,
Nor in the cups of budding flowers,
Nor in the red breast's mellowing tone,
Nor in the bow that smiles in showers,
But in the mud and scum of things
There always, always something sings.

WALDEINSAMKEIT

RALPH WALDO EMERSON

I do not count the hours I spend
In wandering by the sea;

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,

Or down the oaken glade,

O what have I to do with time?
For this the day was made.

Cities of mortals woe-begone
Fantastic care derides,

But in the serious landscape lone
Stern benefit abides.

Sheen will tarnish, honey cloy,
And merry is only a mask for sad,
But, sober on a fund of joy,
The woods at heart are glad.

There the great Planter plants
Of fruitful worlds the grain,
And with a million spells enchants
The soul that walks in pain.

Still on the seeds of all he made

The rose of beauty burns;

Through times that wear and forms that fade, Immortal youth returns.

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