WALDEINSAMKEIT

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,

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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,

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But in the serious landscape lone

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Stern benefit abides.

Sheen will tarnish, honey cloy,
And merry is only a mask of sad,

But, sober on a fund of joy,
The woods at heart are glad.

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There the great Planter plants
Of fruitful worlds the grain,

And with a million spells enchants
The souls that walk 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.

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,
The sires of Nature, hide.

Aloft, in secret veins of air,

Blows the sweet breath of song,

O, few to scale those uplands dare,
Though they to all belong!

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See thou bring not to field or stone

The fancies found in books;

Leave authors' eyes, and fetch your own,
To brave the landscape's looks.

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1858.

Oblivion here thy wisdom is,
Thy thrift, the sleep of cares;
For a proud idleness like this
Crowns all thy mean affairs.

Ralph Waldo Emerson.

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A STRIP OF BLUE

I Do not own an inch of land,
But all I see is mine,-

The orchard and the mowing-fields,
The lawns and gardens fine.
The winds my tax-collectors are,
They bring me tithes divine,-
Wild scents and subtle essences,
A tribute rare and free;
And, more magnificent than all,
My window keeps for me
A glimpse of blue immensity,-
A little strip of sea.

Richer am I than he who owns
Great fleets and argosies;
I have a share in every ship
Won by the inland breeze,
To loiter on yon airy road
Above the apple-trees.

I freight them with my untold dreams;
Each bears my own picked crew;
And nobler cargoes wait for them

Than ever India knew,

My ships that sail into the East
Across that outlet blue.

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Sometimes they seem like living shapes,-
The people of the sky,-
Guests in white raiment coming down
From heaven, which is close by:
I call them by familiar names,
As one by one draws nigh.
So white so light, so spirit-like,
From violets mists they bloom!
The aching wastes of the unknown
Are half reclaimed from gloom,
Since on life's hospitable sea

All souls find sailing-room.

The ocean grows a weariness,
With nothing else in sight;

Its east and west, its north and south,
Spread out from morn till night;
We miss the warm, caressing shore,
Its brooding shade and light.
A part is greater than the whole;
By hints are mysteries told.
The fringes of eternity,-
God's sweeping garment-fold,
In that bright shred of glittering sea,
I reach out for and hold.

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,
By suns unsetting kissed.

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