Ralph Waldo Emerson
Ralph Waldo Emerson
Ralph Waldo Emerson
Ralph Waldo Emerson
Ralph Waldo Emerson
Ralph Waldo Emerson
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Ralph Waldo Emerson
Ralph Waldo Emerson
Ralph Waldo Emerson
Ralph Waldo Emerson
Ralph Waldo Emerson
Ralph Waldo Emerson
Ralph Waldo Emerson
Ralph Waldo Emerson
Ralph Waldo Emerson
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Ralph Waldo Emerson
Ralph Waldo Emerson
Ralph Waldo Emerson
Ralph Waldo Emerson
Ralph Waldo Emerson
Ralph Waldo Emerson
Ralph Waldo Emerson
Ralph Waldo Emerson
Ralph Waldo Emerson
Ralph Waldo Emerson
Ralph Waldo Emerson
Ralph Waldo Emerson
Ralph Waldo Emerson
Ralph Waldo Emerson
Ralph Waldo Emerson
Ralph Waldo Emerson
Ralph Waldo Emerson
Ralph Waldo Emerson
Ralph Waldo Emerson
In the deep heart of man a poet dwells
Who all the day of life his summer story tells;
Scatters on every eye dust of his spells,
Scent, form and color; to the flowers and shells
Wins the believing child with wondrous tales;
Touches a cheek with colors of romance,
And crowds a history into a glance;
Gives beauty to the lake and fountain,
Spies oversea the fires of the mountain;
When thrushes ope their throat, 't is he that sings,
And he that paints the oriole's fiery wings.
The little Shakspeare in the maiden's heart
Makes Romeo of a plough-boy on his cart;
Opens the eye to Virtue's starlike meed
And gives persuasion to a gentle deed.