(1803 - 1882 / Boston / United States)

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Dirge

Knows he who tills this lonely field
To reap its scanty corn,
What mystic fruit his acres yield
At midnight and at morn?

In the long sunny afternoon,
The plain was full of ghosts,
I wandered up, I wandered down,
Beset by pensive hosts.

The winding Concord gleamed below,
Pouring as wide a flood
As when my brothers long ago,
Came with me to the wood.

But they are gone,— the holy ones,
Who trod with me this lonely vale,
The strong, star-bright companions
Are silent, low, and pale.

My good, my noble, in their prime,
Who made this world the feast it was,
Who learned with me the lore of time,
Who loved this dwelling-place.

They took this valley for their toy,
They played with it in every mood,
A cell for prayer, a hall for joy,
They treated nature as they would.

They colored the horizon round,
Stars flamed and faded as they bade,
All echoes hearkened for their sound,
They made the woodlands glad or mad.

I touch this flower of silken leaf
Which once our childhood knew
Its soft leaves wound me with a grief
Whose balsam never grew.

Hearken to yon pine warbler
Singing aloft in the tree;
Hearest thou, O traveller!
What he singeth to me?
Not unless God made sharp thine ear
With sorrow such as mine,
Out of that delicate lay couldst thou
The heavy dirge divine.

Go, lonely man, it saith,
They loved thee from their birth,
Their hands were pure, and pure their faith,
There are no such hearts on earth.

Ye drew one mother's milk,
One chamber held ye all;
A very tender history
Did in your childhood fall.

Ye cannot unlock your heart,
The key is gone with them;
The silent organ loudest chants
The master's requiem.

Submitted: Monday, January 13, 2003


Read poems about / on: childhood, lonely, history, birth, grief, flower, faith, sorrow, star, nature, tree, mother, joy, god, world, brother, wind

Comments about this poem (Dirge by Ralph Waldo Emerson )

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  • Sidi Mahtrow (11/24/2012 9:31:00 AM)

    Once we trod these virgin acres
    Thoughts free and pure
    No image of growing old
    Or losing that for which we were bold
    Now they lie moldering in the dirt
    Bones, bleached and white
    Only their memory lingers on
    Strong liquor does not atone
    For I wait to gain presence there
    Where we will be reunited, there is no despair.

    s
    (For those who found Emerson's poem too long.)

    1 person liked.
    0 person did not like.
  • Cherryl Delan (11/24/2012 3:58:00 AM)

    the gift of family, of having brothers and sisters to grow up with. i am blessed to have such.

    2 person liked.
    0 person did not like.
  • Kevin Straw (11/24/2009 5:55:00 AM)

    This is a wonderful elegy to Emerson’s boyhood spent roaming in the countryside with his brothers now dead. It recalls for me the first verse of Wordsworth's Immortality Ode:

    THERE was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
    The earth, and every common sight,
    To me did seem
    Apparell'd in celestial light,
    The glory and the freshness of a dream. 5
    It is not now as it hath been of yore; —
    Turn wheresoe'er I may,
    By night or day,
    The things which I have seen I now can see no more.

    1 person liked.
    0 person did not like.
  • Ramesh T A (11/24/2009 1:17:00 AM)

    A long meaningful poem by Emerson in praise of plough man lonely is praiseworthy!

    2 person liked.
    0 person did not like.
  • Morgan Uptain (11/24/2008 12:50:00 PM)

    Very deep. I enjoy it very much.

    2 person liked.
    0 person did not like.
  • surya . (11/24/2008 3:47:00 AM)

    Hi Ralph
    I find this poem as a serious effort. Your mind seems firm on the idea. Very good poem.Congrats.
    sury surya

    2 person liked.
    0 person did not like.
  • Krista Churchill (11/24/2008 12:52:00 AM)

    Very long poem.. I do like it though... Thank you for sharing..


    krista

    1 person liked.
    1 person did not like.
  • Mary Burnette (11/24/2007 11:15:00 AM)

    As a dirge, this poem is successful. But so full of despair that its message of remembrances of things past is almost lost. I don't know nearly enough about Ralph Waldo Emerson's life to know his circumstances were when he wrote the poem, but it was depressing to me.

    2 person liked.
    0 person did not like.
  • Amanda Ngcobo (11/21/2007 1:36:00 PM)

    Its to long and this poet has a similar style to Silvia Plath (I dislike her poetry to a certain extent)

    2 person liked.
    0 person did not like.
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