C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
Inspiration
By Henry David Thoreau (1817–1862)
W
And blesses us;
The work we choose should be our own,
God leaves alone.
If with light head erect I sing,
Though all the Muses lend their force,
From my poor love of anything,
The verse is weak and shallow as its source.
Listening behind me for my wit,
With faith superior to hope,
More anxious to keep back than forward it;
Unto the flame my heart hath lit,—
Then will the verse for ever wear:
Time cannot bend the line which God hath writ.
Floats in review before my mind,
And such true love and reverence brings,
That sometimes I forget that I am blind.
Some clear divine electuary,
And I, who had but sensual been,
Grow sensible, and as God is, am wary.
And sight, who had but eyes before;
I moments live, who lived but years,
And truth discern, who knew but learning’s lore.
I see beyond the range of sight,
New earths and skies and seas around,
And in my day the sun doth pale his light.
Pierces my soul through all its din,
As through its utmost melody,—
Farther behind than they, farther within.
Its voice than thunder is more loud;
It doth expand my privacies
To all, and leave me single in the crowd.
With so serene and lofty tone,
That idle time runs gadding by,
And leaves me with Eternity alone.
And only now my prime of life:
Of manhood’s strength it is the flower;
’Tis peace’s end and war’s beginning strife.
By a gray wall or some chance place,
Unseasoning Time, insulting June,
And vexing day with its presuming face.
More rich than are Arabian drugs,
That my soul scents its life and wakes
The body up beneath its perfumed rugs.
The star that guides our mortal course,
Which shows where life’s true kernel’s laid,
Its wheat’s fine flour, and its undying force.
And also my poor human heart;
With one impulse propels the years
Around, and gives my throbbing pulse its start.
Nor falter from a steadfast faith;
For though the system be turned o’er,
God takes not back the word which once he saith.
Which not my worth nor want has bought,
Which wooed me young, and wooes me old,
And to this evening hath me brought.
To know the one historic truth,
Remembering to the latest date
The only true and sole immortal youth.
No matter through what danger sought,
I’ll fathom hell or climb to heaven,
And yet esteem that cheap which love has bought.
Fame cannot tempt the bard
Who’s famous with his God,
Nor laurel him reward
Who has his Maker’s nod.