Days Poem by Ralph Waldo Emerson

Get the images of Emerson's 'Days' clear before launching off in some convoluted scheme based on misunderstanding the connotation and denotation of the words in the poem! Read closely and you will comprehend, I think! The daughters of Time who spin their hours are LIKE barefoot dervishes - note the simile - which is a Moslem religious order whose members practice whirling so as to induce a hypnotic state (though male, they wear skirts and conical hats) . Recall Coleridge's poem 'Kubla Khan' which should come to mind as you read 'Days' - that's what connote means, lads! Check out 'hypocycloid, ' which is exactly what dervishes do in geometrical terms - they roll around the inner circumference of another circle endlessly (it seems!) The last line refers to the headbands the daughters wear - each her own solemn fillet bound around her head! Diadems refer to the royal gifts each brings. The speaker laments that he filches a few herbs and apples and thereby earns the scorn of departing Day! All those riches offered - from bread to the stars and sky he has ignored. 'Could I revive within me /her symphony and song' Coleridge's speaker in 'Kubla Khan' agrres!

I find that the givin author speaks in riddles of which i can not understand, when attempting to find one who can decipher this poem i am greeted by another bombardment of large and old timey words.

Nature is more than all the things kingdom can give; but we forget it in the mundane things of the world and waste our time! Message is wonderful!

I could picture him in that garden with apples and herbs. Much more quiet time.[Dervishes - a new word-thanks Kevin for the Def. ]

Muffled and dumb like barefoot dervishes. What a conceptualization?

A profound and great poem describing some sour facts about life and living of human beings with their shortcomings.

Saw the scorn! ! Thanks for sharing this poem with us.

Muffled and dumb like barefoot dervishes, And marching single in an endless file, Bring diadems and in their hands. a very fine poem.. indeed. tony

Time, the thief, is endless and pitiless as it marches ever on. 'And marching single in an endless file, '