Ralph Waldo Emerson

(1803 - 1882 / Boston / United States)

Comments about Ralph Waldo Emerson

  • Shivani (11/21/2017 9:14:00 AM)

    Your too good poet

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  • Printfromvintage Website Printfromvintage Website (2/22/2016 11:35:00 AM)

    We have found a never-before-seen rough draft of Emerson's famed poem FABLE. See it at: http: //printfromvintage.com/2016/02/16/found-a-handwritten-poem-by-ralph-waldo-emerson-in-a-book-from-1845/

    It was handwritten in the back of a book from 1845 and later published with a correction in his book POEMS in 1846.

  • Kelley Tom (1/26/2016 5:09:00 PM)

    Who else loves Emerson a LOT? I personally love him.

  • V.muthu Manickam V.muthu Manickam (11/12/2015 8:52:00 AM)

    Emerson is a truly unique gift of the god to literature. A poet greatly recognized forever and everywhere. Hats off him.

  • Lee Schneider (11/24/2013 3:59:00 AM)

    If he would be alive I would tell him:
    a. If a worst is, that man knows, it is ridiculous to be scared of unknown.
    b. If a best is, that man knows, it is smart to be scared of unknown.
    The question is: ''Who is happier? ''
    Dear Ralph Waldo Emerson!
    In spite you were b. and I am a. I consider myself happier than you were. That is why I share and like much all your minor verse

  • Lee Caldwell (9/18/2005 8:14:00 AM)

    No finer Poet in the World. Emerson is one of a kind, a unique, eloquent Master of the Word and Phrase

Best Poem of Ralph Waldo Emerson

Fate

Deep in the man sits fast his fate
To mould his fortunes, mean or great:
Unknown to Cromwell as to me
Was Cromwell's measure or degree;
Unknown to him as to his horse,
If he than his groom be better or worse.
He works, plots, fights, in rude affairs,
With squires, lords, kings, his craft compares,
Till late he learned, through doubt and fear,
Broad England harbored not his peer:
Obeying time, the last to own
The Genius from its cloudy throne.
For the prevision is allied
Unto the thing so signified;
Or say, the foresight that awaits
Is...

Read the full of Fate

My Garden

If I could put my woods in song
And tell what's there enjoyed,
All men would to my gardens throng,
And leave the cities void.

In my plot no tulips blow,--
Snow-loving pines and oaks instead;
And rank the savage maples grow
From Spring's faint flush to Autumn red.

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