Henry David Thoreau (हेनरी डेविड थोरो)

Untarnished fair as is the violet,Or anemone, when the spring strews them.

By some meandering rivulet, which make,The best philosophy untrue that aims.

But to console man for his grievances,I have remembered when the winter came.

High in my chamber in the frosty nights,When in the still light of the cheerful moon.

On every twig and rail and jutting spout,The icy spears were adding to their length.

Against the arrows of the coming sun,How in the shimmering noon of summer past.

Some unrecorded beam slanted across,The upland pastures where the Johnswort grew.

Or heard, amid the verdure of my mind,The bee's long smothered hum, on the blue flag.

Loitering amidst the mead; or busy rill,Which now through all its course stands still and dumb.

Its own memorial,—purling at its play,Along the slopes, and through the meadows next.

Until its youthful sound was hushed at last,In the staid current of the lowland stream.

Or seen the furrows shine but late upturned,And where the fieldfare followed in the rear.

When all the fields around lay bound and hoar,Beneath a thick integument of snow.

So by God's cheap economy made rich,To go upon my winter's task again.

Time wears her not; she doth his chariot guide,Mortality below her orb is placed.

--Raleigh,The full-orbed moon with unchanged ray.

Mounts up the eastern sky,Not doomed to these short nights for aye.

But shining steadily,She does not wane, but my fortune.

Which her rays do not bless,My wayward path declineth soon.

But she shines not the less,And if she faintly glimmers here.

And paled is her light,Yet alway in her proper sphere.

Great God, I ask for no meaner pelf,Than that I may not disappoint myself.

That in my action I may soar as high,As I can now discern with this clear eye.

And next in value, which thy kindness lends,That I may greatly disappoint my friends.

Howe'er they think or hope that it may be,They may not dream how thou'st distinguished me.

That my weak hand may equal my firm faith,And my life practice what my tongue saith.

That my low conduct may not show,Nor my relenting lines.

That I thy purpose did not know,Or overrated thy designs.

"Friends, Romans, Countrymen, and Lovers.",Let such pure hate still underprop.

Our love, that we may be,Each other's conscience.

And have our sympathy,Mainly from thence.

We'll one another treat like gods,And all the faith we have.

In virtue and in truth, bestow,On either, and suspicion leave.

To gods below,Two solitary stars--.

Unmeasured systems far,Between us roll.

But by our conscious light we are,Determined to one pole.

What need confound the sphere?--,Love can afford to wait.

For it no hour's too late,That witnesseth one duty's end.

Or to another doth beginning lend,It will subserve no use.

More than the tints of flowers,Only the independent guest.

Frequents its bowers,Inherits its bequest.

No speech, though kind, has it,But kinder silence doles.

Unto its mates,By night consoles.

By day congratulates,What saith the tongue to tongue?.

What hearest ear of ear?,By the decrees of fate.

From year to year,Does it communicate.

Pathless the gulf of feeling yawns,No trivial bridge of words.

Or arch of boldest span,Can leap the moat that girds.

The sincere man,No show of bolts and bars.

Can keep the foeman out,Or 'scape his secret mine.

Who entered with the doubt,That drew the line.

No warder at the gate,Can let the friendly in.

But, like the sun, o'er all,He will the castle win.

And shine along the wall,There's nothing in the world I know.

That can escape from love,For every depth it goes below.

And every height above,It waits, as waits the sky.

Until the clouds go by,Yet shines serenely on.

With an eternal day,Alike when they are gone.

And when they stay,Implacable is Love--.

Foes may be bought or teased,From their hostile intent.

But he goes unappeased,Who is on kindness bent.

Whate'er we leave to God, God does,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.

But if with bended neck I grope,Listening behind me for my wit.

With faith superior to hope,More anxious to keep back than forward it.

Making my soul accomplice there,Unto the flame my heart hath lit.

Untarnished fair as is the violet,Or anemone, when the spring strews them.

By some meandering rivulet, which make,The best philosophy untrue that aims.

But to console man for his grievances,I have remembered when the winter came.

High in my chamber in the frosty nights,When in the still light of the cheerful moon.

On every twig and rail and jutting spout,The icy spears were adding to their length.

Against the arrows of the coming sun,How in the shimmering noon of summer past.

Some unrecorded beam slanted across,The upland pastures where the Johnswort grew.

Or heard, amid the verdure of my mind,The bee's long smothered hum, on the blue flag.

Loitering amidst the mead; or busy rill,Which now through all its course stands still and dumb.

Its own memorial,—purling at its play,Along the slopes, and through the meadows next.

Until its youthful sound was hushed at last,In the staid current of the lowland stream.

Or seen the furrows shine but late upturned,And where the fieldfare followed in the rear.

When all the fields around lay bound and hoar,Beneath a thick integument of snow.

So by God's cheap economy made rich,To go upon my winter's task again.

Time wears her not; she doth his chariot guide,Mortality below her orb is placed.

--Raleigh,The full-orbed moon with unchanged ray.

Mounts up the eastern sky,Not doomed to these short nights for aye.

But shining steadily,She does not wane, but my fortune.

Which her rays do not bless,My wayward path declineth soon.

But she shines not the less,And if she faintly glimmers here.

And paled is her light,Yet alway in her proper sphere.

Great God, I ask for no meaner pelf,Than that I may not disappoint myself.

That in my action I may soar as high,As I can now discern with this clear eye.

And next in value, which thy kindness lends,That I may greatly disappoint my friends.

Howe'er they think or hope that it may be,They may not dream how thou'st distinguished me.

That my weak hand may equal my firm faith,And my life practice what my tongue saith.

That my low conduct may not show,Nor my relenting lines.

That I thy purpose did not know,Or overrated thy designs.

"Friends, Romans, Countrymen, and Lovers.",Let such pure hate still underprop.

Our love, that we may be,Each other's conscience.

And have our sympathy,Mainly from thence.

We'll one another treat like gods,And all the faith we have.

In virtue and in truth, bestow,On either, and suspicion leave.