The Writings of Henry David Thoreau, Volume 1

Houghton, Mifflin, 1893
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Página 122 - And who, in time, knows whither we may vent The treasure of our tongue, to what strange shores This gain of our best glory shall be sent, T' enrich unknowing nations with our stores? What worlds in th' yet unformed Occident May come refined with th
Página 84 - DO not do unto others as you would that they should do unto you.
Página 10 - By the rude bridge that arched the flood, Their flag to April's breeze unfurled, Here once the embattled farmers stood, And fired the shot heard round the world. The foe long since in silence slept; Alike the conqueror silent sleeps; And Time the ruined bridge has swept Down the dark stream which seaward creeps. On this green bank, by this soft stream, We set to-day a votive stone; That memory...
Página 445 - My life has been the poem I would have writ, But I could not both live and utter it.
Página 52 - A man that looks on glass, On it may stay his eye ; Or if he pleaseth, through it pass, And then the heaven espy. All may of Thee partake : Nothing can be so mean, Which with this tincture (for Thy sake) Will not grow bright and clean. A servant with this clause Makes drudgery divine : Who sweeps a room, as for Thy laws, Makes that and th
Página 336 - Is't then too late the damage to repair? Distance, forsooth, from my weak grasp hath reft The empty husk, and clutched the useless tare, 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 know a sympathy more rare. Friendship is evanescent in every man's experience, and remembered like heat lightning in past summers.
Página 152 - Yet I doubt not through the ages one increasing purpose runs, And the thoughts of men are widened with the process of the suns.
Página 241 - 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 daisied banks and violets, And in whose fenny 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!
Página 457 - And what's a life ? a weary pilgrimage, Whose glory in one day doth fill the stage With childhood, manhood, and decrepit age. And what's a life ? the flourishing array Of the proud summer meadow, which to-day Wears her green plush, and is to-morrow hay.
Página 223 - T is sweet to hear of heroes dead, To know them still alive, But sweeter if we earn their bread, And in us they survive. Our life should feed the springs of fame With a perennial wave, As ocean feeds the babbling founts Which find in it their grave.

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