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the nun's aspiration. - 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 nun's aspiration.

    • The yesterday doth never smile,
    • The day goes drudging through the while,
    • Yet, in the name of Godhead, I
    • The morrow front, and can defy;
    • Though I am weak, yet God, when prayed,
    • Cannot withhold his conquering aid.
    • Ah me! it was my childhood's thought,
    • If He should make my web a blot
    • On life's fair picture of delight,
    • My heart's content would find it right.
    • But O, these waves and leaves,—
    • When happy stoic Nature grieves,
    • No human speech so beautiful
    • As their murmurs mine to lull.
    • On this altar God hath built
    • I lay my vanity and guilt;
    • Nor me can Hope or Passion urge
    • Hearing as now the lofty dirge
    • Which blasts of Northern mountains hymn,
    • Nature's funeral high and dim,—
    • Sable pageantry of clouds,
    • Mourning summer laid in shrouds.
    • Many a day shall dawn and die,
    • Many an angel wander by,
    • And passing, light my sunken turf
    • Moist perhaps by ocean surf,
    • Forgotten amid splendid tombs,
    • Yet wreathed and hid by summer blooms.
    • On earth I dream;—I die to be:
    • Time, shake not thy bald head at me.
    • I challenge thee to hurry past
    • Or for my turn to fly too fast.
    • Think me not numbed or halt with age,
    • Or cares that earth to earth engage,
    • Caught with love's cord of twisted beams,
    • Or mired by climate's gross extremes.
    • I tire of shams, I rush to be:
    • I pass with yonder comet free,—
    • Pass with the comet into space
    • Which mocks thy æons to embrace;
    • Æons which tardily unfold
    • Realm beyond realm,—extent untold;
    • No early morn, no evening late,—
    • Realms self-upheld, disdaining Fate,
    • Whose shining sons, too great for fame,
    • Never heard thy weary name;
    • Nor lives the tragic bard to say
    • How drear the part I held in one,
    • How lame the other limped away.