Henry David Thoreau Poems

On fields o'er which the reaper's hand has pass'd
Lit by the harvest moon and autumn sun,
My thoughts like stubble floating in the wind
And of such fineness as October airs,
...

Mine are the night and morning,
The pits of air, the gull of space,
The sportive sun, the gibbous moon,
The innumerable days.
...

ALL things are current found
On earthly ground,
Spirits and elements
Have their descents.
...

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,
...

Men say they know many things;
But lo! they have taken wings, —
The arts and sciences,
And a thousand appliances;
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What's the railroad to me?
I never go to see
Where it ends.
It fills a few hollows,
...

Sending
In delinquency
To disappoint
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LIGHT-WINGED Smoke, Icarian bird,
Melting thy pinions in thy upward flight,
Lark without song, and the messenger of dawn,
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Packed in my mind lie all the clothes
Which outward nature wears,
And in its fashion's hourly change
It all things else repairs.
...

They who prepare my evening meal below
Carelessly hit the kettle as they go
With tongs or shovel,
And ringing round and round,
...