Stranger, if thou hast learned a truth which needs
No school of long experience, that the world
Is full of guilt and misery, and hast seen
Enough of all its sorrows, crimes and cares,
To tire thee of it, enter this wild wood
And view the haunts of Nature. The calm shade
Shall bring a kindred calm, and the sweet breeze
That makes the green leaves dance, shall waft a balm
To thy sick heart.
You May Also Like / View all maxioms
On the Big Blackfoot River above the mouth of Belmont Creek the
banks are fringed by large Ponderosa pines. read more
On the Big Blackfoot River above the mouth of Belmont Creek the
banks are fringed by large Ponderosa pines. In the slanting sun
of late afternoon the shadows of great branches reached across
the river, and the trees took the river in their arms.
The scarlet of the maples can shake me like a cry,
Of bugles going by.
The scarlet of the maples can shake me like a cry,
Of bugles going by.
This is the forest primeval.
This is the forest primeval.
The groves were God's first temple. Ere man learned
To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave,
read more
The groves were God's first temple. Ere man learned
To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave,
And spread the roof above them,--ere he framed
The lofty vault, to gather and roll back
The sound of anthems; in the darkling wood,
Amidst the cool and silence, he knelt down
And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks
And supplication.
You'd scarce expect one of my age
To speak in public on the stage;
And if I read more
You'd scarce expect one of my age
To speak in public on the stage;
And if I chance to fall below
Demosthenes or Cicero,
Don't view me with a critic's eye,
But pass my imperfections by.
Large streams from little fountains flow,
Tall oaks from little acorns grow.
Some boundless contiguity of shade.
Some boundless contiguity of shade.
Oh, leave this barren spot to me!
Spare, woodman, space the beechen tree!
Oh, leave this barren spot to me!
Spare, woodman, space the beechen tree!
I think that I shall never see
A poem as lovely as a tree.
. . . read more
I think that I shall never see
A poem as lovely as a tree.
. . . .
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.
The forest laments in order that Mr. Gladstone may perspire.
The forest laments in order that Mr. Gladstone may perspire.
