Author: Henry David Thoreau (---.spacegate.com.ua)
Date: 01-30-06 09:27
The former post was off topic and was thus removed as it was a violation of our
Great Books & Classics spirit. These forums are being phased out & replaced. Join us at our new
registration-only forums at:
jollyrogerwest.com Great Books forums,
and booksliterature.com Great Books forums.
Please respect that these are Great Books sites. We prefer discussions along the following
Not from the stars do I my judgement pluck;
And yet methinks I have astronomy,
But not to tell of good or evil luck,
Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons\' quality;
Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,
Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,
Or say with princes if it shall go well
By oft predict that I in heaven find:
But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,
And constant stars in them I read such art
As \'Truth and beauty shall together thrive,
If from thyself, to store thou wouldst convert\';
Or else of thee this I prognosticate:
\'Thy end is truth\'s and beauty\'s doom and date.\'
When I consider every thing that grows
Holds in perfection but a little moment,
That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows
Whereon the stars in secret influence comment;
When I perceive that men as plants increase,
Cheered and checked even by the self-same sky,
Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease,
And wear their brave state out of memory;
Then the conceit of this inconstant stay
Sets you most rich in youth before my sight,
Where wasteful Time debateth with decay
To change your day of youth to sullied night,
And all in war with Time for love of you,
As he takes from you, I engraft you new.
Alack! what poverty my Muse brings forth,
That having such a scope to show her pride,
The argument, all bare, is of more worth
Than when it hath my added praise beside!
O! blame me not, if I no more can write!
Look in your glass, and there appears a face
That over-goes my blunt invention quite,
Dulling my lines, and doing me disgrace.
Were it not sinful then, striving to mend,
To mar the subject that before was well?
For to no other pass my verses tend
Than of your graces and your gifts to tell;
And more, much more, than in my verse can sit,
Your own glass shows you when you look in it.
No matter what time it is, wake me, even if it\'s in the middle of a
Sometimes one pays most for the things one gets for nothing. --Albert