Henry David Thoreau: Всі вірші поета | Poetree

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Conscience

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 plot is simple,

And does not thicken with every pimple,

A soul so sound no sickly conscience binds it,

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by Henry David Thoreau

Let Such Pure Hate Still Underprop

Let Such Pure Hate Still Underprop

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 all the faith we have

In virtue and in truth, bestow

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by Henry David Thoreau

I Am The Autumnal Sun

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 globule

from her veins steals up into our own.

I am the autumnal sun,

With autumn gales my race is run;

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by Henry David Thoreau

Indeed, Indeed I Cannot Tell

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 disgust me.

O, I hate thee with a hate

That would fain annihilate;

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by Henry David Thoreau

I Am A Parcel Of Vain Strivings Tied

I Am A Parcel Of Vain Strivings Tied

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 without their roots,

And sorrel intermixed,

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by Henry David Thoreau

Epitaph On The World

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;

'Tis vain its character to tell,

The several fates which it befell,

What year it died, when 'twill arise,

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by Henry David Thoreau

Friendship

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 how or why,

My greatest happiness;

However hard I try,

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by Henry David Thoreau

Mist

Mist

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 dasied banks and violets,

And in whose fenny labyrinth

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by Henry David Thoreau

Nature

Nature

O Nature! I do not aspire

To be the highest in thy choir, -

To be a meteor in thy sky,

Or comet that may range on high;

Only a zephyr that may blow

Among the reeds by the river low;

Give me thy most privy place

Where to run my airy race.

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by Henry David Thoreau

The Summer Rain

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 target.

Plutarch was good, and so was Homer too,

Our Shakespeare's life were rich to live again,

What Plutarch read, that was not good nor true,

Nor Shakespeare's books, unless his books were men.

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by Henry David Thoreau

Winter Memories

Winter Memories

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 stew them

By some meandering rivulet, which make

The best philosophy untrue that aims

But to console man for his grievances.

I have remembered when the winter came,

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by Henry David Thoreau