Poem Ralph Waldo Emerson

Peter’s Field.

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[Knows he who tills this lonely field
⁠  To reap its scanty corn,
What mystic fruit his acres yield
⁠  At midnight and at morn?]


That field by spirits bad and good,
⁠   By Hell and Heaven is haunted,
And every rood in the hemlock wood
⁠   I know is ground enchanted.


[In the long sunny afternoon
⁠   The plain was full of ghosts:
I wandered up, I wandered down,
⁠   Beset by pensive hosts.]


For in those lonely grounds the sun
⁠   Shines not as on the town,
In nearer arcs his journeys run,
⁠   And nearer stoops the moon.


There in a moment I have seen
⁠   The buried Past arise;
The fields of Thessaly grew green,
⁠   Old gods forsook the skies.

 

I cannot publish in my rhyme
⁠   What pranks the greenwood played;
It was the Carnival of time,
⁠   And Ages went or stayed.


To me that spectral nook appeared
⁠   The mustering Day of Doom,
And round me swarmed in shadowy troop
⁠   Things past and things to come.


The darkness haunteth me elsewhere;
⁠   There I am full of light;
In every whispering leaf I hear
⁠   More sense than sages write.


Underwoods were full of pleasance,
⁠   All to each in kindness bend,
And every flower made obeisance
⁠   As a man unto his friend.


Far seen, the river glides below,
⁠   Tossing one sparkle to the eyes:
I catch thy meaning, wizard wave;
⁠   The River of my Life replies.

The Walk
Written At Rome

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