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the problem. - Ralph Waldo Emerson, The Works of Ralph Waldo Emerson, vol. 9 (Poems) [1909]

Edition used:

The Works of Ralph Waldo Emerson, in 12 vols. Fireside Edition (Boston and New York, 1909).

Part of: The Works of Ralph Waldo Emerson, in 12 vols. (Fireside Edition).

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the problem.

    • I like a church; I like a cowl;
    • I love a prophet of the soul;
    • And on my heart monastic aisles
    • Fall like sweet strains, or pensive smiles;
    • Yet not for all his faith can see
    • Would I that cowlèd churchman be.
    • Why should the vest on him allure,
    • Which I could not on me endure?
    • Not from a vain or shallow thought
    • His awful Jove young Phidias brought;
    • Never from lips of cunning fell
    • The thrilling Delphic oracle;
    • Out from the heart of nature rolled
    • The burdens of the Bible old;
    • The litanies of nations came,
    • Like the volcano's tongue of flame,
    • Up from the burning core below,—
    • The canticles of love and woe:
    • The hand that rounded Peter's dome
    • And groined the aisles of Christian Rome
    • Wrought in a sad sincerity;
    • Himself from God he could not free;
    • He builded better than he knew;—
    • The conscious stone to beauty grew.
    • Know'st thou what wove yon woodbird's nest
    • Of leaves, and feathers from her breast?
    • Or how the fish outbuilt her shell,
    • Painting with morn each annual cell?
    • Or how the sacred pine-tree adds
    • To her old leaves new myriads?
    • Such and so grew these holy piles,
    • Whilst love and terror laid the tales.
    • Earth proudly wears the Parthenon,
    • As the best gem upon her zone,
    • And Morning opes with haste her lids
    • To gaze upon the Pyramids;
    • O'er England's abbeys bends the sky,
    • As on its friends, with kindred eye;
    • For out of Thought's interior sphere
    • These wonders rose to upper air;
    • And Nature gladly gave them place,
    • Adopted them into her race,
    • And granted them an equal date
    • With Andes and with Ararat.
    • These temples grew as grows the grass;
    • Art might obey, but not surpass.
    • The passive Master lent his hand
    • To the vast soul that o'er him planned;
    • And the same power that reared the shrine
    • Bestrode the tribes that knelt within.
    • Ever the fiery Pentecost
    • Girds with one flame the countless host,
    • Trances the heart through chanting choirs,
    • And through the priest the mind inspires.
    • The word unto the prophet spoken
    • Was writ on tables yet unbroken;
    • The word by seers or sibyls told,
    • In groves of oak, or fanes of gold,
    • Still floats upon the morning wind,
    • Still whispers to the willing mind.
    • One accent of the Holy Ghost
    • The heedless world hath never lost.
    • I know what say the fathers wise,—
    • The Book itself before me lies,
    • Old Chrysostom, best Augustine,
    • And he who blent both in his line,
    • The younger Golden Lips or mines,
    • Taylor, the Shakspeare of divines.
    • His words are music in my ear,
    • I see his cowlèd portrait dear;
    • And yet, for all his faith could see,
    • I would not the good bishop be.