 Introduction to Poems of Nature by Henry David Thoreau. The fifty poems here brought together under the title Poems of Nature are perhaps two-thirds of those which Thoreau preserved. Many of them were printed by him, in whole or in part among his early contributions to Emerson's dial, or in his own two volumes, The Week and Walden, which were all that were issued in his lifetime. Others were given to Mr. Sandborn for publication by Sophia Thoreau the year after her brother's death. Several appeared in the Boston Commonwealth in 1863, or have been furnished from time to time by Mr. Blake, his literary executor. Most of Thoreau's poems were composed early in his life, before his twenty-sixth year. Just now he wrote in the autumn of 1841, quote, I am in the mid-sea of verses, and they actually rustle round me, as the leaves would round the head of Autumnus himself, should he thrusted up through some veils which I know, but alas many of them are but crisped in yellow leaves like his, I fear, and will deserve no better fate than to make mold for new harvest, unquote. After 1843 he seems to have written but few poems, and had destroyed perhaps as many as he had retained, because they did not meet the exacting requirements of his friend Emerson, upon whose opinion at that time he placed great reliance. This loss was regretted by Thoreau, and after years, when the poetical habit had left him, for he fancied that some of the verses were better than his friend had supposed. But Emerson, who seldom changed his mind, adhered to his verdict, and while praising some of the poems highly, perhaps extravagantly, would emit but a small number of them to the slight selection which he appended to the posthumous edition of Thoreau's letters, edited by him in 1865, and even those were printed, in some instances, in an abbreviated and imperfect form. A few other poems, with some translations from the Greek, have lately been included by Thoreau's Boston publishers in their volume of Miscellany's Volume 10 of the Riverside edition, 1894, but no collection so full as the present one has ever been offered to the public. It has not been attempted to make this a complete collection of Thoreau's poems, because, as has been well said, many of them seem to be merely pendants to his prose discourse, dropped in as forcible epigrams where they are brief and in other instances made ancillary to the idea just expressed, or to perpetuate a distinct conception that has some vital connection with the point from which it was poured forth. It is therefore almost an injustice to treat them separately at all. After the discontinuance of the dial, Thoreau ceased to publish his verses as separate poems, but interpolated them in the manner described in his prose essays, where they form a sort of accompaniment to the thought, and from which it is in many cases impossible to detach them. That he himself set some value on them in this connection may be gathered from a sentence in the last of his published letters in which he writes to a correspondent, quote, I am pleased when you say that in the week you like especially those little snatches of poetry interspersed through the book, for these I suppose are the least attractive to most readers, a quote. Everything that concerns a great writer has its special interest, and Thoreau's poetry, whatever its intrinsic value may be, is full of personal significance. In fact, as Emerson remarked, his biography is his verses, thus many of these poems will be found to throw light on certain passages of his life. Inspiration, for example, is the record of his soul's awakening to the new impulse of transcendentalism. The stanzas on symphony perhaps contain in a thinly disguised form the story of his youthful love, and the sacrifice which he imposed on himself to avoid rivalry with his brother. The lines to my brother refer to the sudden and tragic death of John Thoreau in 1842, and the departure is believed to be the poem in which Henry Thoreau, when leaving in 1843 the home of Emerson, where he had lived for two years, took farewell of his friends. The numerous other allusions to the life and scenery of Concord, with which Thoreau's own life was so closely blended, required no comment or explanation. The rose view of the poetic character as stated by him, in the week, is illustrative of his own position. A true poem, he says, quote, is distinguished not so much by felicitous expression or any thought it suggests as by the atmosphere which surrounds it. There are two classes of men called poets. The one cultivates life, the other art. One seeks food for nutriment, the other for flavor. One satisfies hunger, the other gratifies the palate, unquote. There could be no doubt to which of these classes Thoreau himself belongs. If metrical skill be insisted on as an indispensable condition of poetry, he can hardly be ranked among the poets. Nor where this criterion was dominant was it surprising that as one of his contemporaries tells us, with reference to his verses in the dial, quote, an unquenchable laughter, like that of God's at Vulcan's, limping, went up over his ragged and halting lines, unquote. But in the appreciation of poetry there is a good deal more to be considered than this. And as the same writer has remarked, there is, quote, a frank and unpretending nobleness, unquote. And many of Thoreau's verses distinguish as they are, at their best, by their right fullness of thought, quite gravity of tone, and epigrammatic terseness of expression. The title of poet could hardly be withheld from the author of such truly powerful pieces as The Fall of the Leaf, Winter Memories, Smoke in Winter, or Inspiration. Nor should it be forgotten that Thoreau was always regarded as a poet by those who were associated with him. Quote Naturalist was the suggestive title which Ellery Channing applied to him. An Hawthorne remark that, quote, his thoughts seemed to measure and attune themselves into spontaneous verse, as they rightfully may, since there is real poetry in them, unquote. Even Emerson's final estimate was far from unappreciative. In his poetry he wrote, in his biographical sketch, quote, might be bad or good. He no doubt wanted a lyric facility in technical skill, but he had the source of poetry in his spiritual perception. His own verses are often rude and defective. The gold does not yet run pure, as drossi include. The thyme and majorum are not yet honey, but if he want lyric finesse in technical merits, if he have not the poetic temperament, he never lacks the casual thought showing that his genius was better than his talent, unquote. Perhaps what Thoreau said a quarrelse, one of that school of nomadic poets of which he was a student, might be aptly applied to himself, quote, it is rare to find one who was so much of a poet and so little of an artist. Hopelessly quaint he never doubts his genius. It is only he and his God in all the world. He uses language sometimes as greatly a Shakespeare, and though there is not much straight grain in him, there is plenty of rough crooked timbre, unquote. The affinity of Thoreau's style through that of Herbert, Dunn, Cowley, and other minor Elizabethans has often been remarked, and it has been truly said that the stanzas sic vitae might almost have a niche in Herbert's temple. It must be granted then that Thoreau, whatever his limitations, had the poet's vision and sometimes the poet's divine faculty, and if this was manifested more frequently in his masterly prose, it was neither absent from his verse nor from the whole tenor of his character. It was his destiny to be one of the greatest prose writers whom America has produced, and he had a strong, perhaps an exaggerated sense of the dignity of this calling. Great prose, he thinks, quote, of equal elevation commands our respect more than great verse, since it implies a more permanent and level height, a life more pervaded with the grandeur of the thought. The poet only makes an eruption, like a Parthian, and is off again shooting while he retreats, but the prose writer has conquered, like a Roman, and settled colonies, unquote. If therefore we cannot unreservedly place the row among the poetical brotherhood, we may at least recognize that he was a poet in the larger sense in which his friends so regarded him. He felt, thought, acted, and lived as a poet, though he did not always write as one. In his own words, my life has been the poem I would have written, but I could not both live and utter it. Such qualities dignify life and make the expression of it memorable, not perhaps immediately to the multitude of readers, but at first to an appreciative few and eventually to a wide circle of mankind. End of Introduction Nature by Henry David Thoreau Read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson O Nature, I do not aspire to be the highest in thy choir, to be a meteor in the sky, or comet that may range on high, only a zephyr that may blow among the reeds by the river below. Give me thy most pivvy place where to run my airy race. In some withdrawn unpublic mead, let me sigh upon a reed, or in the woods with leafy din whisper the still evening in. Some still work give me to do, only be it near to you. For I'd rather be thy child in pupil in the forest wild than be the king of men elsewhere, and most sovereign slave of care, to have one moment of thy dawn than share the city's year forlorn. End of Poem This Recording is in the Public Domain Inspiration by Henry David Thoreau Read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson What air 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 force, from my poor love of anything, the verse is weak and shallow as its source. But if with bended neck I grope listening behind me for my wit, with faith superior to hope, more anxious to keep back than forward it. Making my soul accomplice there unto the flame my heart hath lit, then will the verse for ever wear, time cannot bend the line which God hath writ. Always the general show of things floats in review before my mind, and such true love and reverence brings that sometimes I forget that I am blind. But now there comes unsought unseen some clear divine electure, and I who had but sensual been, grow sensible, and as God is and wary. I hearing it who had but ears, and sight who had but eyes before. I moments live who lived but ears, and truth discern who knew but learning's lore. I hear beyond the range of sound I see beyond the range of sight. Few earths and skies and seas around, and in my day the sun doth pale his light. A clear and ancient harmony pierces my soul through all its den, as through its utmost melody farther behind than they, farther within. More swift its bolt than lightning is, its voice than thunder is more loud, it doth expand my privacies to all and leave me single in the crowd. It speaks with such authority, with so serene and lofty tone, that idle time runs gating by and leaves me with eternity alone. Now chiefly is my natal hour, and only now my prime of life, of manhood's strength it is the flower, to his peace's end and war's beginning strife. It comes in summer's broadest noon by a gray wall, or some chance place unseasoning time, insulting June, and vexing day with its presuming face. Such fragrance round my couch it makes, more rich than our Arabian drugs, that my soul scents its life and wakes the body up beneath its perfumed drugs. Such is the muse, the heavenly maid, the star that guides our mortal course, which shows where life's true kernels laid, its wheat's fine flower and its undying force. She with one breath attunes the seers, and also my poor human heart with one impulse propels the years around, and gives my throbbing pulse its start. I will not doubt forevermore, nor falter from a steadfast to faith, for though the system be turned o'er, God takes not back the word which once he saith. I will not doubt the love untold, which not my worth nor want has bought, which wooed me young and woozed me old, and to this evening hath me brought. My memory I'll educate to know the one historic truth, remembering to the latest date the only true and soul in mortal youth. Be but thy inspiration given, no matter through what danger sought, I'll fathom hell or climb to heaven, and yet esteem that cheap which love has bought. King cannot tempt the bard, who's famous with his God, nor laurel him a reward, who has his maker's nod. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sick Vita by Henry David Thoreau, read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson. It is but thin soil where we stand. I have felt my roots in a richer air this. I have seen a bunch of violets in a glass vase, tied loosely with a straw which reminded me of myself. The weak. 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, me thinks, for milder weather. A bunch of violets without their roots, and sorrel intermixed, encircled by a wisp of straw once coiled about their shoots, the law by which I'm fixed. A nose-gay which time clutched from out those fair Elysian fields, with weeds and broken stems and haste, doth make the rabble route that wastes the day he yields. And here I bloom for a short hour unseen, drinking my juices up with no root in the land to keep my branches green, but stand in a bare cup. Some tinder buds were left upon my stem in mimicry of life, but, ah, the children will not know till time has withered them, the woe with which they're writhed. But now I see I was not plucked for naught, and after in life's vase of glass set while I might survive, but by a kind hand brought alive to a strange place. That stock thus thinned will soon redeem its hours, and by another year, such as God knows, with freer air, more fruits and fairer flowers will bear while I droop here. End of poem This recording is in the public domain. The Fisher's Boy by Henry David Thoreau Read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson My life is like a stroll upon the beach, as near the ocean's edge as I can go. My tardy steps sit waves sometimes or reach, sometimes I stay to let them overflow. My sole employment is, and scrupulous care, to place my gains beyond the reach of tides, each smoother pebble, and each shell more rare, which ocean kindly to my hand confides. I have but few companions on the shore, they scorn the strand who sail upon the sea. Yet oft I think the ocean they've sailed o'er is deeper known upon the strand to me. The middle sea contains no crimson doles, as deeper waves cast up no pearls to view. Along the shore my hand is on its pulse, and I converse with many a ship-direct crew. End of poem This recording is in the public domain. The Elantides by Henry David Thoreau Read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson The friend is some fair-floating isle of palms, eluding the mariner in Pacific seas. The Week The smothered streams of love which flow more bright than Flegathon, more low, island us ever like the sea, in an Atlantic mystery. Our fabled shores none ever reach, no mariner has found our beach. Scarcely our mirage now has seen, and neighbouring waves with floating green, yet still the oldest charts contain some dotted outline of our main. In ancient times mid-summer days and to the western island's gaze, to Tenerife and the Azores have shown our faint and cloud-like shores. But sink not yet ye desolate aisles. And on your coast with commerce smiles, and Richard Fraig ye'll furnish far than Africa or Malabar. Be fair, be fertile evermore, ye rumoured but untrodden shore. Princes and monarchs will contend, who first unto your land shall send, and pawn the jewels of the crown, to call your distant soil their own. Sea and land are but his neighbours, and companions and his labours, who on the ocean's verge and firm land's end doth long and truly seek his friend. Many men dwell far inland, but he alone sits on the strand. Whether he ponders men or books, always still he seaward looks. Marine news he ever reads, and the slightest glance heads, feels the sea breeze on his cheek. At each word the landsmen speak. In every companion's eye a sailing vessel doth describe. In the ocean's sullen roar from some distant port he hears, of wrecks upon a distant shore, and the ventures of past years. Into poem this recording is in the public domain. The Aurora of Guido by Henry David Thoreau, read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson. A Fragment. The god of day his car rolls up the slopes, raining his prancing steeze with steady hand. The lingering moon through western shadows gropes, while morning sheds its light or sea and land. Castles and cities by the sounding main, resound with all the busy den of life. The fisherman unfurls his sails again, and the recruited warrior bides the strife. The early breeze ruffles the poplar leaves. The curling waves reflect the unseen light. The slumbering sea with the day's impulse heaves, while o'er the western hill retires the drowsy night. The sea birds dip their bills in ocean's foam, far circling out over the frothy waves. Into poem this recording is in the public domain. Sympathy by Henry David Thoreau, read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson. Only alas I knew a gentle boy whose features all were cast in Virtue's mold, as one she had designed for Beauty's toy, but after manned him for her own stronghold. On every side he opened was as day, that you might see no lack of strength within. For walls and ports do only serve all way, for a pretense to feebleness and sin. Say not that Caesar was victorious, with toil and strife who stormed the house of fame. In other sense this youth was glorious, himself a kingdom, where so where he came. No strength went out to get him victory, when all was income of its own accord. For where he went none other was to see, but all were parcel of their noble lord. He forayed like the subtle haze of summer, that still he shows fresh landscapes to our eyes, and revolutions work without a murmur, of rustling of a leaf beneath the skies. So as I taken unawares by this, I quite forgot my homage to confess, yet now I'm forced to know, though hard it is, I might have loved him, had I loved him less. Each moment as we nearer drew to each, a stern respect withheld as farther yet, so that we seemed beyond each other's reach, and less acquainted than when first we met. We too were one, while we did sympathize, so could we not the simplest bargain drive? And what avails it now that we are wise, if absence doth this doubleness contrive? Eternity may not the chance repeat, but I must tread my single way alone, in sad remembrance that we once did meet, and know that bliss irrevocably gone. The spheres henceforth my elegy shall sing, for elegy has other subject none, each strain of music in my ear shall ring nell of departure from that other one. Make haste and celebrate my tragedy. With fitting strain resound ye woods and fields, sorrow is dearer in such case to me, than all the joys other occasion yields. Since then too late the damage to repair, distance forsooth from my weak grasp has left the empty husk, and clutched the useless terror, but in my hands the wheat and kernel left. If I but love that virtue which he is, though it be scented in the morning air, still shall we be truest acquaintances, nor mortals, nor sympathy, nor rare. Friends, Romans, Countrymen, and Lovers. Let such pure hate still under-prop our love, that we may be each other's conscience, and have our sympathy mainly from thence. Will one another tweet like God's, and all the faith we have in virtue and in truth, bestow on either, and suspicion leave to God's below? Two solitary stars, unmeasured systems far between us roll, but by our conscious light we are determined to one pole. What need confound the sphere? Love can afford to wait, for it no hours too late, that witnesses one duty's end, or to another doth beginning land. It will subserve no use, more than the tints of flowers, only the independent guess frequents its powers, inherits its bequest. No speech, though kind, has it, but kinder silence doles unto its mates, by night consoles by day congratulates. What set the tongue to tongue? What hearth ear of ear? By the degrees of fate from ear to ear does it communicate? Notice the gulf of feeling yawns. No trivial bridge of words, or arch of boldest ban, can leap the moat that girds the sincere man. No show of bolts and bars can keep the foe-man out, or scape his secret mine, who entered with the doubt that drew the line. No water at the gate can let the friendly in, but like the sun or all, he will the castle win, and shine along the wall. There's nothing in the world I know that can escape from love, for every depth that goes below, and every height above. It waits as waits the sky until the clouds go by, yet shines serenely on with an eternal day, alike when they are gone and when they stay. Implacabulous love, foes may be bought or teased from their hostile intent, but he goes unappeased, who is on kindness bent. In the poem, this recording is in the public domain. True Kindness by Henry David Thoreau, read for LibriVox.org by Lurie Wilson. True Kindness is a pure divine affinity, not founded upon human consanguinity. It is a spirit, not a blood relation, superior to family and station. In the poem, this recording is in the public domain. To the Maiden in the East by Henry David Thoreau, read for LibriVox.org by Lurie Wilson. Low in the eastern sky is set thy glancing eye, and though its gracious light near rises to my sight, yet every star that climbs above the gnarly limbs of yonder hill conveys thy gentle will. Believe I knew thy thought, and that the Zephyrs brought thy kindest wishes through, as mine they bear to you. Let some attentive cloud deposit mid the crowd over my head, while gentle things were said. Believe the thrushes sung, and that the flower-bells rung, that herbs excelled their scent, and beasts knew what was meant. The trees a-welcome waved, and lakes their margins laved, when thy free mind to my retreat did wind. It was a summer eve. The air did gently heave, while yet a low-hung cloud, thy eastern skies did shroud. The lightning-silent gleam startling my drowsy dream seemed like the flash under thy dark eyelash. From yonder comes the sun, but soon his course is run, rising to trivial day along his dusty way. But thy noontag completes only a rural heat, nor ever sets to hasten vain regrets. Direct thy pensive eye into the western sky, and when the evening-star does glimmer from afar upon the mountain-line, accept it for a sign that I am near, and thinking of thee here. I'll be thy Mercury, thou Cytheria to me, distinguished by thy face, the earth shall earn my place, as near beneath thy light will I outwear the night with mingled ray leading the western way. Still will I strive to be as if thou wert with me. Whatever path I take it shall be for thy sake, of gentle slope and wide, as thou wert by my side, without a route to trip thy gentle foot. I'll walk with gentle pace, and choose the smoothest place, and careful dip the oar and shun the winding shore, and gently steer my boat where water-lilies float, and cardinal flowers stand in their silven bowers. My love must be as free as the eagle's wing, hovering over land and sea, and everything. I must not dim my eye and thy saloon, I must not leave my sky and nightly moon. Be not the fowler's net which stays my flight, and craftily is set to lure the sight. But be the favoring gale that bears me on, and still to fill my sail, when thou art gone. I cannot leave my sky for thy caprice, true love would soar as high as heaven is. The eagle would not brook her mate thus one, who trained his eye to look beneath the sun. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. First from an Aeolian harp by Henry David Thoreau, read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson. There is a veil which none hath seen, where foot of man has never been, such as here lives with toil and strife and anxious and a sinful life. There every virtue has its birth ere it descends upon the earth, and thither every deed returns which in the generous bosom burns. Their love is warm, and youth is young, and poetry is yet unsung. For virtue still adventures there, and freely breathes her native air. And ever if you harken well you still may hear its vesper bell, and tread of high-sold men go by, their thoughts conversing with the sky. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Fines by Henry David Thoreau, read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson. Though all the fate should prove unkind, leave not your native land behind. The ship be calmed at length's stand still. The steed must rest beneath the hill. But swiftly still our fortunes pace to find us out in every place. The vessel, though her mass be firm, beneath her copper bears a worm, around the cape, across the line, till fields of ice her course confine. It matters not how smooth the breeze, how shallow or how deep the seas, whether she bears Manila twine, or in her whole Madera wine, or Chinatis or Spanish hides. In port or quarantine she rides. Far from New England's blustering shore, New England's worm her hulk shall bore, and sinker in the Indian seas, twine, wine and hides, and Chinatis. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Stanzas by Henry David Thoreau, read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson. Before each van prick forth the airy knights, and couch their spears till thickest legions close, with feats of arms from either end of heaven the welkin burns. Away, away, away, away ye have not kept your secret well. I will abide that other day, those other lands ye tell. As time no leisure left for these, the acts that ye rehearse, is not eternity at least for better deeds than verse. Desweet to hear of heroes dead, to know them still alive, but the sweeter if we earn their bread, and in us they survive. Our lives should feed the springs of fame with perennial wave, as ocean feeds the babbling founts, which find in it their grave. Ye skies drop gently round my breast, and be my coarselet blue. Ye earth receive my lance and rest, my faithful charger ye. Ye stars my spearheads in the sky, my aerotips ye are. I see the routed fullmen fly, my bright spears fixadar. Give me an angel for a foe, fix now the place and time, and straight to meet him I will go above the starry chime. And with our clashing bucklers clang the heavenly spears shall ring, while bright the northern light shall hang beside our turning. And if she lose her champion true, tell heaven not despair, for I will be her champion new, her fame I will repair. In the poem, this recording is in the public domain, A River Seen by Henry David Thoreau, read for LibriVox.org by Lurie Wilson. The river swelleth more and more, like some sweet influence stealing oar the Passive Town, and for a while each tussock makes a tiny aisle, whereon some friendly air-rat resteth the weary water-rat. No ripple shows mesquitequid, her very currents in his head, as deepest souls do commas rest, when thoughts are swelling in the breast. And she, that in the summer's drought, doth make a rippling at her out, sleeps her nashatak to the cliff, unruffled by a single skiff. But by a thousand distant hills the louder roar a thousand rills. And many a spring which now is dumb, and many a stream with smothered hum, doth swifter well and faster glide, though buried deep beneath the tide. Our village shows a rural Venice, its broad legumes where yonder fan is, as lovely as the bay of Naples, yon placid cove amid the maples. And in my neighbor's field of corn I recognize the golden horn. Another nature taught from year to year, when only red men came to hear. We thinkst was in this school of art, Venice and Naples learned their part. But still their mistress, to my mind, her young disciples leaves behind. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. River Song by Henry David Thoreau. Read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson. Why the oars, away, away! In each dew-drop of the morning lies the promise of a day. Rivers from the sunrise flow, springing with the dewy morn. Voyagers against time do row, idle noon nor sunset no. Ever even with the dawn. Since that first away, away, many a lengthy reach we've rowed. Still the sparrow on the spray haste to usher in the day, where simple stands it owed. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Some tumultuous little rill. By Henry David Thoreau. Read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson. Some tumultuous little rill, purling round its storied pebble, tinkling to the south-same tune from September until June, which no drought doth air enfeeble. And flows the parent's stream, and if rocks do lie below, smothers with her waves the din, as it were with youthful sin, just as still, and just as slow. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Boatsong by Henry David Thoreau. Read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson. Thus perchance the Indian hunter, many a lagging year gone, treading o'er thy rippling waters, lowly hum'd a natural song. Now the sun's behind the willows, now he gleams along the waves, faintly o'er the weird bills come the spirits of the braves. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. To My Brother by Henry David Thoreau. Read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson. Brother, where dost thou dwell? What sun shines for thee now? Dost thou indeed fare well as we wish thee here below? What season dost thou find, twas winter here? Are not the fates more kind than they appear? Is thy brow clear again, and in thy youthful years? And was that ugly pain the summit of thy fears? Yet thou wast cheery still, they could not quench thy fire. Thou didst abide their will, and then retire. Where chiefly shall I look to feel thy presence near? Along the neighboring brook may I thy voice still hear? Does thou still hump the brink of yonder river's tide? And may I ever think that thou art by my side? What bird will thou employ to bring me word of thee? For it would give them joy, it would give them liberty, to serve their former lord with wing and minstrel-sling. A sadder strain mixed with their song, they've slowly or built their nests. Since thou art gone, their lively labor rests. Where is the finch, the thrush I used to hear? Ah, they could well abide the dine-year. Now they know more return, I hear them not. They have remained to mourn, or else forgot. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Stanzes by Henry David Thoreau. Read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson. Nature doth have her dawn each day. But mine are far between. Content I cry for sooth to say, mine brightest are I wean. For when my son doth dain to rise, though it be her noontide her fairest field in shadow lies, nor can my light abide. Sometimes I bask me in her day, conversing with my mate. But if we interchange one ray, forthwith her heats of eight. Through his discourse I climb and see, as from some eastern hill, a brighter morrow rise to me, than life in her skill. As toward two summer days in one, two Sundays come together, our rays united make one sun, with fairest summer weather. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Inward Morning by Henry David Thoreau. Read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson. Packed in my mind lie all the clothes which outward nature wears, and in its fashions hourly change it all things else repairs. In vain I look for change abroad and can no difference find, till some new ray of peace uncalled elumes my inmost mind. What is it, gills the trees and clouds and paints the heavens so gay, but yonder fast abiding light with its unchanging ray? Low when the sun streams through the wood upon a winter's morn, where his silent beams intrude, the murky night is gone. How could the patient pine have known the morning breeze would come, or humble flowers anticipate the insects' noonday hum? Till the new light with morning cheer from far streamed through the aisles, and it nimbly told the forest trees for many stretching miles. I've heard within my inmost soul such cheerful morning news, in the horizon of my mind, have seen such orient hues, as in the twilight of the dawn when the first birds awake are heard within some silent wood where they the small twigs break, or in the eastern skies are seen before the sun appears, the harbingers of summer heats, which from afar he bears. In the poem, this recording is in the public domain. Greece by Henry David Thoreau, read for LibriVox.org by Laurie Wilson. When life contracts into a vulgar span and human nature tires to be a man, I thank the gods for Greece, that permanent realm of peace. For as the rising moon far in the night checkers the shade with her fore-running light, so in my darkest hour my senses seem to catch from her acropolis a gleam. Greece, who am I that I should remember thee? Thy marathon and thy thermopoly. Is my life vulgar, my fate mean, which on such golden memories can lean? In the poem, this recording is in the public domain. The Funeral Bell by Henry David Thoreau, read for LibriVox.org by Laurie Wilson. One more is gone out of the busy throng that tread these paths. The church bell tolls its sad nail rolls to many hearths. Flower bells toll not, their echoes roll not upon my ear. There still perchance that gentle spirit haunts a fragrant beer. Low lies the pall, lowly the mourners all their passage grope, though sable hue mars the serene blue of heaven's cope. In distant dell faint sounds the Funeral Bell, a heavenly chime. Some poet there weaves the light birthing air into sweet rhyme. In the poem, this recording is in the public domain. The Summer Rain by Henry David Thoreau, read for LibriVox.org by Laurie Wilson. My bookside fame cast off, I cannot read. Twixed every page my thoughts go stray at large, down in the meadow where is Richard Feed, and will not mind to hit their proper charge. Plutarch was good, and so was Homer too. Our Shakespeare's life were rich to live again, but Plutarch read, that was not good nor true, nor Shakespeare's books, unless his books were men. Here while I lie beneath this walnut bow, what care I for the grease or for tory-town? If juster battles are enacted now between the ants upon this hummock's crown, bid Homer wait till I the issue learn. If red or black the gods will favor most, or yonder Ajax will the phalanx turn, struggling to heave some rock against the host. Tell Shakespeare to attend some leisure hour. For now I've business with this drop of dew, and see you not the clouds prepare a shower. I'll meet him shortly when the sky is blue. This bed of herd grass and wild oats was spread last year with nicer skill than monarch's use. A clover tuft is pillow for my head, and violets quite overtop my shoes. And now the cordial clouds have shut all in, and gently swells the wind to say, all's well. The scattered drops are falling fast and thin, some in the pool, some in the flower-bell. I am well drenched upon my bed of oats, but see that globe come rolling down its stem, now like a lonely planet there it floats, and now it sinks into my garment's hem. Drip the trees for all the country round, and richness rare distills from every bow. The wind alone it makes every sound, shaking down crystals on the leaves below. For shame the sun will never show himself, who could not with his beams air melt me so. My dripping locks, they would become an elf who in beaded coat does gaily go. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Missed by Henry David Thoreau. Read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson. Low anchored cloud, newfoundland air, fountainhead in source of rivers, dewcloth dream drapery, and napkin spread by face, drifting meadow of the air where bloom the daisy banks and violets, and in whose finny labyrinth the bittern booms and heron wades, spirit of lakes and seas and rivers, bear only perfumes and the scent of healing herbs to just men's fields. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Smoke by Henry David Thoreau. Read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson. Light-winged smoke, a carrion bird melting thy opinions in thy upward flight, lark without song and messenger of dawn, circling above thy hamlets as thy nest, or else departing dream and shadowy form of midnight vision, gathering up thy skirts by nightstar veiling and by day darkening the light and blotting out the sun. Go thou, my incense, upward from this hearth and ask the gods to pardon this clear flame. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Haze by Henry David Thoreau. Read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson. Woof of the sun, ethereal gauze woven of nature's richest stuffs, visible heat, air-water and dry sea, last conquest of the eye. Toil of the day displayed, sun-dust aerial surf upon the shores of earth, ethereal estuary, frith of light, breakers of air, billows of heat, fine summer spray on inland seas, bird of the sun, transparent winged, owlet of noon, soft pinioned, from heath or stubble rising without song, establish thy serenity or the fields. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Moon by Henry David Thoreau. Read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson. Time wears her not, she doth his chariot guide. Mortality below her orb is placed. Raleigh. The full-oared moon with unchanged ray mounts up the eastern sky, not doomed to these short nights for eye, but shining steadily. She does not wane, but my fortune which her rays do not bless, my wayward path declines with soon, but she shines not the less. And if she faintly glimmers here and pale it is her light, yet always in her proper sphere, she's mistress of the night. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Virial by Henry David Thoreau. Read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson. Upon the lofty elm tree sprays, the virial rings the changes sweet, during the trivial summer days, striving to lift our thoughts above the street. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Poets Delay by Henry David Thoreau. Read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson. In vain I see the morning rise, in vain observe the western blaze, who idly look to other skies expecting life by other ways. Amidst such boundless wealth without, I only still in poor within. The birds have sung their summer out, but still my spring does not begin. Shall I then wait the autumn wind, compelled to seek a milder day, and leave no curious nest behind, no wood still echoing to my lay? End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Lines by Henry David Thoreau. Read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson. All things are current found on earthly ground. Spirits and elements have their descents. Night and day, year on year, high and low, far and near. These are our own aspects. These are our own regrets. Ye gods of the shore who abide evermore. I see your far headland stretching on either hand. I hear the sweet evening sounds from your undecaying grounds. Cheat me no more with time. Take me to your climb. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Nature's Child by Henry David Thoreau. Read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson. I am the autumnal sun, with autumn gales my races run. When will the hazel put forth its flowers, or the grape ripen under my bowers? When will the harvest, or the hunter's moon, turn my midnight into midnight? I am all seer a yellow, and to my core mellow. The mast is dropping within my woods, the winter is lurking within my moods, and the rustling of the withered leaf is the constant music of my grief. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Fall of the Leaf by Henry David Thoreau. Read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson. Thank God who seasons thus the year, and sometimes kindly slants his rays. For in his winter he's most near, and plain is seen upon the shortest days, who gently tempers now his heats, and then his harsher cold, lest we should surf it on the summer suites, or pine upon the winter's cootity. A sober mind will walk alone, apart from nature if need be, and only its own seasons own, for nature leaving its humanity. Sometimes a late autumnal thought has crossed my mind in green July, and to its early freshness brought late ripened fruits and an autumnal sky. The evening of the year draws on, the fields a later aspect wear, since summer's garishness is gone, some grains of night tincture the noontide air. They hold the shadows of the trees now circle wider about their stem, like centuries that by slow degrees perform their rounds, gently protecting them. And as the year does decline, the sun allows a scantier light. Behind each needle of the pine, there lurks a small auxiliar to the night. I hear the cricket slumber slay around beneath me and on high, it rocks the night, it soothes the day, and everywhere is nature's lullaby. But most he chirps beneath the sod when he has made his winter bed, his Greek-grown fainter but more broad, a film of autumn or the summer spread. Small birds in fleets migrating by now beat across some meadows bay, and as they tack and veer on high, with faint and hurried click beguile the way, far in the woods these golden days some leaf obeys its maker's call, and through their hollow aisles it plays with delicate touch the prelude of the fall. Gently withdrawing from its stem, it lightly lays itself along where the same hand hath pillowed them, resigned to sleep upon the old year's throng. The loneliest birches brown and sear, the furthest pool is strewn with leaves, which float upon their watery beer, where is no eye that sees, no heart that grieves. The jay screams through the chestnut wood, the crisped and yellow leaves around are hue and texture of my mood, and these rough burrs my heirlooms on the ground. The threadbare trees so poor and thin, they are no wealthier than I, but with as brave a core within they rear their boughs to the October sky. Poor knights they are, which bravely wait the charge of winter's cavalry, keeping a simple Roman state discomfort of their Persian luxury. Into poem, this recording is in the public domain. Smoke in Winter by Henry David Thoreau, read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson. The sluggish smoke curls up from some deep dell, the stiffened air exploring in the dawn, and making slow acquaintance with the day, delaying now upon its heavenward course in wreathed loiterings, dallying with itself, with as uncertain purpose and slow deed, as its half-wakened master by the hearth, whose mind still slumbering and sluggish thoughts have not yet swept into the onward current of the new day. And now it streams afar, though while the chopper goes with step direct, and mind intent to wield the early axe. First in the dusky dawn he sends abroad his early scout, his emissary, smoke, the earliest latest pilgrim from the roof, to feel the frosty air inform the day. And while he crouches still beside the hearth, nor musters courage to unbar the door, it has gone down the glen with the light wind, and o'er the plain unfurled its venturous wreath draped the treetops loitered upon the hill, and warmed the pinions of the early bird. And now, perchance high in the crispy air, has caught sight of the day o'er the earth's edge, and greets its master's eye at his low door as some refulgent cloud in the upper sky. In the poem, this recording is in the public domain. Winter Memories by Henry David Thoreau, read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson. Within the circuit of this plotting life, there enter moments of an azure hue, untarnished fair as is the violet, or an enemy when the spring strews them by some meandering riffulet, which make the best philosophy untrue, that aims but to console man for his grievances. I have remembered when the winter came, high in my chamber in the frosty nights, when in the still light of the cheerful moon, on every twig and rail and jutting spout, the icy spears were adding to their length against the arrows of the coming sun, how in the shimmery noon of summer past, some unrecorded beams slanted across the upland pastures where the Johnswort grew, or heard amid the verger of my mind the bees long smothered hum on the blue flag loitering amidst the mead, or busy rill which now through all its course stands still and dumb, its own memorial, purling at its play along the slopes and through the meadows next, until its youthful sound was hushed at last in the staid current of the lowland stream, or seen the furrows shine but late upturned, and where the feel-fair followed in the rear, when all the fields around lay bound in horror beneath a thick entugament of snow, so by God's cheap economy made rich to go upon my winter's task again. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Stanzas written at Walden by Henry David Thoreau, read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson. When winter fridges every bow with his fantastic wreath and puts the seal of silence now upon the leaves beneath, when every stream in its penthouse goes gurgling on its way, and in his gallery the mouse nibbleth the meadow hay, he thinks the summer still is nigh and lurketh underneath as that same meadow mouse doth lie snug in that last year's heath, and if perchance the chickadee lispeth ain't notanon, the snow is summer's canopy which she herself put on. Fair blossoms deck the cheerful trees and dazzling fruits depend, the north wind sighs a summer breeze, the nipping frost defend, bringing glad tidings unto me the while I stand all ear, of a serene eternity which need not winter fear. Out on the silent pond straightway the restless ice doth crack, and pond-spite's merry gambles play amid the deafening rack. Eager I hasten to the veil, as if I heard brave news how nature held high festival which it were hard to lose. I gamble with my neighbour ice and sympathising quake, as each new crack darts in a trice across the gladsome lake. One with a cricket in the ground and faggot on the hearth resounds the rare domestic sound along the forest path. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Thaw by Henry David Thoreau read from LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson. I saw the civil sun drying earth's tears, her tears of joy that only faster flowed. Fane would I stretch me by the highway side to thaw and trickle with the melting snow, that mingled soul and body with the tide. I too may through the pores of nature flow. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A Winter Scene by Henry David Thoreau read from LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson. The rabbit leaps, the mouse out creeps, the flag out peeps beside the brook, the ferret weeps, the marmot sleeps, the owlet keeps in his snug nook. The apples thaw, the ravens caw, the squirrels gnaw the frozen fruit. To their retreat I tracked the feet of mice that eat the apples root. The snow dust falls, the otter crawls, the partridge calls far in the wood. The traveller dreams, the tree ice gleams, the blue jay screams in angry mood. The willows droop, the alders stoop, the pheasants group beneath the snow. The catkins green cast o'er the scene a summer sheen, a genial glow. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Crow by Henry David Thoreau read from LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson. Thou dusky spirit of the wood, bird of an ancient brood, flitting thy lonely way, a meteor in the summer's day, from wood to wood, from hill to hill, low over forest, field and real, what wouldst thou say? Why shouldst thou haunt the day? What makes thy melancholy float? What bravery inspires thy throat and bears thee up above the clouds, over desponding human crowds which far below lay thy haunts low? End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. To Astray Fowl by Henry David Thoreau read from LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson. Poor bird, destined to lead thy life far in the adventurous west and here to be debarred tonight from thy accustomed nest. Must thou fall back upon old instinct now? Well, nigh extinct under man's fickle care. Did heaven bestow its quenchless inner light so long ago for thy small want tonight? Why stands the palm thy toes to grow so late? The moon is deaf to thy low feathered fate. Or dost thou think so to possess the night and people that drear dark with thy brave sprite? And now with anxious eye thou looks'd about while the relentless shade draws on its veil for some sure shelter from approaching dews and the insidious step of nightly foes? I fear imprisonment has dulled thy wit or ingrained servitude extinguished it. But no, dim memory of the days of yore by Brahmaputra and the Juma's shore where thy proud race flew swiftly or the heath and sought as food the jungle's shade beneath has taught thy wings to seek yon friendly trees as urged by Indus Bank and the Far Ganges. In de poem, this recording is in the public domain. Mountains by Henry David Thoreau, read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson. With frontier strength ye stand your ground, with grand content ye circle round, to multuous silence for all sound. Ye distant nursery of rills, Manadnok and the Peterborough Hills, firm argument that never stirs, out circling the philosophers, like some vast fleet sailing through rain and sleet, through winter's cold and summer's heat, still holding on upon your high imprise until ye find ashore amid the skies, not skulking close to land with cargo contraband. For they who sent a venture out by ye have set the sun to see their honesty. Ships of the line each one ye westward run, convoying clouds which cluster in your shrouds, always before the gale under oppressive sail. With weight of metal all untold, I seem to feel ye in my firm seat here, immeasurable depth of hold and breadth of beam and length of running gear. Me think ye take luxurious pleasure in your novel western leisure, so cool your brows and freshly blue, as time had not for ye to do. For ye lie at your length an unappropriated strength, unhewn primeval timber, for knees so stiff, for mass so limber, the stock of which new earths are made, one day to be our western trade, fit for the stentions of a world which through the seas of space is hurled. While we enjoy a lingering ray, ye still or top the western day, reposing yonder on God's craft like solid stacks of hay. So bold a line as near was writ on any page by human wit. The forest glows as if an enemy's campfire shone along the horizon, or the day's funeral pyre were lighted there. Edged with silver and with gold, the clouds hang o'er in damask fold, and with fresh depth of amber light. The west is tight, where still a few rays slant that even heaven seems extravagant, while Tadakill lies on the horizon sill, like a child's toy left over night. Another does to left and right. On the earth's edge, mountains and trees stand as they were on air graven, or as the vessels in a haven, await the morning breeze. I fancy even through your defiles windeth the way to heaven. And yonder still, in spite of history's page, linger the golden and the silver age. Upon the laboring gale, the news of future centuries is brought, and of new dynasties of thought from your remotest veil. But special I remember thee, Wachucet, who like me standest alone without society. Thy far blue eye, a remnant of the sky, seeing through the clearing of the gorge, or from the windows of the forge, doth leaven all it passes by. Nothing is true, but stands between me and you, thou western pioneer, who knows not shame nor fear, by venturous spirit driven under the eaves of heaven, and canst expand thee there, and breathe enough of air. Even beyond the west, thou my greatest, into unclouded tracks, without a pilgrim's axe cleaving thy road on high, with thy well-tempered brow, and makes thyself a clearing in the sky, upholding heaven, holding down earth, thy pastime from thy birth, not steadied by the one nor leaning on the other, may I approve myself thy worthy brother. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Respectable Folks, by Henry David Thoreau, read for LibriVox.org, by Larry Wilson. The Respectable Folks, where dwell they? They whisper the oaks, and they sigh in the hay, summer and winter, night and day, out on the meadow there dwell they. They never die nor snivel nor cry, nor ask our pity with a wet eye. A sound estate they ever mend, to every asker readily lend, to the ocean wealth, to the meadow health, to time his length to the rock's strength, to the star's light, to the weary night, to the busy day, to the idle play, and so their good cheer never ends, for all are their debtors and all their friends. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Poverty, a Fragment, by Henry David Thoreau, read for LibriVox.org, by Larry Wilson. If I am poor, it is that I am proud. If God has made me naked in a bore, he did not think it fit his work to shroud. The poor man comes direct from heaven to earth, as stars drop down the sky and tropic beams. The rich receives in our gross air his birth, as from low suns are slanted golden gleams. Gone sun is naked, bear of satellite, and lest our earth and moon that office hold. Though his perpetual day feareth no night, and his perennial summer dreads no cold, mankind may delve that cannot my wealth spend. If I know partial wealth appropriate, no armored ships unto the indy send, none robs me of my orient estate. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Conscience, by Henry David Thoreau, read for LibriVox.org, by Larry Wilson. Conscience is instinct bred in the house. Feeling and thinking propagate the sin by an unnatural beating in and in. I say turn it outdoors into the wars. I love a life whose plot is simple and does not thicken with every pimple. A soul so sound, no sickly conscience binds it, that makes the universe no worse than defines it. I love an earnest soul whose mighty joy and sorrow are not drowned in a bowl, and brought to life tomorrow, that lives one tragedy and not 70. A conscience worth keeping, laughing, not weeping. A conscience wise and steady, and forever ready. Not changing with events, dealing in compliments. A conscience exercised about large things, where one may doubt. I love a soul not all of wood, predestinated to be good, but true to the backbone unto itself alone, and false to none, born to its own affairs, its own joys and own cares, by whom the work which God begun is finished and not undone. Taken up where he left off, whether to worship or to scoff. If not good, why then evil? If not good God, good devil. Goodness, you hypocrite, come out of that. Live your life, do your work, then take your hat. I have no patience towards such conscientious cowards. Give me simple laboring folk who love their work, whose virtue is a song to cheer God along. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Pilgrims by Henry David Thoreau, read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson. Have you not seen in ancient times pilgrims pass by toward other climes? With shining faces, youthful and strong, mounting this hill with speech and with song. Ah, my good sir, I know not those ways. Little my knowledge, though many my days, when I have slumbered I have heard sounds as of travellers passing these my grounds. To us a sweet music wafted them by, I could not tell if a far off or nigh, unless I dreamed it. This was of your. I never told it to mortal before. Never remembered but in my dreams, what to me waking a miracle seems. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Departure by Henry David Thoreau, read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson. In this roadstead I have ridden. In this covert I have hidden. Friendly thoughts were cliffs to me, and I hid beneath their lee. This true people took the stranger and warm-hearted housed the ranger. They received their roving-guest and have fed him with the best. What's aware the land afforded to the stranger's wish accorded. Shook the olive, stripped the vine, and expressed the strengthening wine. And by night they did spread o'er him, what by day they spread before him. That good will which was repast was his covering at last. The stranger moored him to their pier without anxiety or fear. By day he walked the sloping land. By night the gentle heavens he scanned. When first his bark stood inland to the coast of that far Finland, sweet-watered brooks came tumbling to the shore, the weary mariner to restore. And still he stayed from day to day if he their kindness might repay. But more and more the sullen waves came rolling toward the shore. And still the more the stranger waited, the less his argacy was freighted. And still the more he stayed, the less his debt was paid. So he unfurled his shrouded mast to receive the fragrant blast, and that same refreshing gale which had wooed him to remain, again and again it was that filled his sail and drove him to the main. All day the low-hung clouds dropped tears into the sea, and the wind amid the shrouds sighed plaintively. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Independence. By Henry David Thoreau. Read for LibriVox.org. By Larry Wilson. My life more civil is and free than any civil polity. Ye princes keep your realms and circumscribed power, not why these are my dreams nor rich as is this hour. What can ye give which I have not? What can ye take which I have got? Can ye defend the dangerous? Can ye inherit nakedness? To all true wants times ear is deaf. Penuria states lend no relief out of their pelf. But a free soul, thank God, can help itself. Be sure your fate doth keep apart its state, not linked with any band, even the noblest in the land. Intended fields with cloth of gold, no place doth hold, but is more chivalrous than they are, and scythe for noble war, a finer strain its trumpet rings, a brighter gleam its armor flings. The life that I aspire to live, no man proposes me. No trade upon the street wears its emblazony. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Ding Dong. By Henry David Thoreau. Read for LibriVox.org. By Larry Wilson. When the world grows old by the chimney side, then forth to the youngly nooks I glide, where over the water and over the land, the bells are booming on either hand. Now up they go, ding, then down again dong, and a while they ring to the same old song. For the metal goes round at a single bound, a cutting the fields with its measured sound, while the tired tongue falls with a lengthened boom as solemn and loud as the crack of doom. Then changed is their measured tone upon tone, and seldom it is that one sound comes alone, for they ring out their peels in a mingled throng, and the breezes waft the loud ding dong along. When the echo hath reached me in this lone veil, I am straightway a hero in coat of mail. I tug at my belt and I march on my post, and feel myself more than a match for a host. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. My Prayer by Henry David Thoreau. Read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson. Great God, I ask thee 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. A next in value which thy kindness lends that I may greatly disappoint my friends. How where they think or hope that it may be, they may not dream how thou dost distinguished me. That my weak hand may equal my firm faith, and my life practice more than my tongue safe. That my low conduct may not show, nor my relenting lines that I thy purpose did not know, or overrated thy designs. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. End of Poems of Nature by Henry David Thoreau.