RALPH WALDO EMERSON
They reckon ill who leave me out;
When me they fly, I am the wings; I am the doubter and the doubt,
And I the hymn the Brahmin sings.
The strong gods pine for my abode, And pine in vain the sacred Seven;
But thou, meek lover of the good!
Find me, and turn thy back on heaven.
��RICHARD HENRY HORNE 68 1 The Plough
A LANDSCAPE IN BERKSHIRE
AiOVE yon sombre swell of land Thou see'st the dawn's grave orange hue, With one pale streak like yellow sand, And over that a vein of blue.
The air is cold above the woods;
All silent is the earth and sky, Except with his own lonely moods
The blackbird holds a colloquy.
Over the broad hill creeps a beam,
Like hope that gilds a good man's brow;
And now ascends the nostril-stream Of stalwart horses come to plough.
Yc rigid Ploughmen, bear in mind
Your labour is for future hours: Advance spare not nor look behind
Plough deep and straight with all your powers!
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