Henry David Thoreau Poems

I think awhile of Love, and while I think,
Love is to me a world,
Sole meat and sweetest drink,
And close connecting link
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Indeed indeed, I cannot tell,
Though I ponder on it well,
Which were easier to state,
All my love or all my hate.
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Time wears her not; she doth his chariot guide;
Mortality below her orb is placed.
--Raleigh
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Conscience is instinct bred in the house,
Feeling and Thinking propagate the sin
By an unnatural breeding in and in.
I say, Turn it out doors,
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My books I'd fain cast off, I cannot read,
'Twixt every page my thoughts go stray at large
Down in the meadow, where is richer feed,
And will not mind to hit their proper targe.
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Low-anchored cloud,
Newfoundland air,
Fountain head and source of rivers,
Dew-cloth, dream drapery,
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I knew a man by sight,
A blameless wight,
Who, for a year or more,
Had daily passed my door,
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Here lies the body of this world,
Whose soul alas to hell is hurled.
This golden youth long since was past,
Its silver manhood went as fast,
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Let such pure hate still underprop
Our love, that we may be
Each other's conscience,
And have our sympathy
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My life has been the poem
I would have writ,
But I could not both live
and utter it.
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