Author: Henry David Thoreau (170.17.165.---)
Date: 03-22-06 18:32
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As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou grow\'st,
In one of thine, from that which thou departest;
And that fresh blood which youngly thou bestow\'st,
Thou mayst call thine when thou from youth convertest,
Herein lives wisdom, beauty, and increase;
Without this folly, age, and cold decay:
If all were minded so, the times should cease
And threescore year would make the world away.
Let those whom nature hath not made for store,
Harsh, featureless, and rude, barrenly perish:
Look, whom she best endow\'d, she gave thee more;
Which bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish:
She carv\'d thee for her seal, and meant thereby,
Thou shouldst print more, not let that copy die.
O! how thy worth with manners may I sing,
When thou art all the better part of me?
What can mine own praise to mine own self bring?
And what is\'t but mine own when I praise thee?
Even for this, let us divided live,
And our dear love lose name of single one,
That by this separation I may give
That due to thee which thou deserv\'st alone.
O absence! what a torment wouldst thou prove,
Were it not thy sour leisure gave sweet leave,
To entertain the time with thoughts of love,
Which time and thoughts so sweetly doth deceive,
And that thou teachest how to make one twain,
By praising him here who doth hence remain.
Take all my loves, my love, yea take them all;
What hast thou then more than thou hadst before?
No love, my love, that thou mayst true love call;
All mine was thine, before thou hadst this more.
Then, if for my love, thou my love receivest,
I cannot blame thee, for my love thou usest;
But yet be blam\'d, if thou thy self deceivest
By wilful taste of what thyself refusest.
I do forgive thy robbery, gentle thief,
Although thou steal thee all my poverty:
And yet, love knows it is a greater grief
To bear greater wrong, than hate\'s known injury.
Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows,
Kill me with spites yet we must not be foes.
We should comport ourselves with the masterpieces of art as with
exalted personages -- stand quietly before them and wait until they speak
A friend might well be reckoned the masterpiece of nature. -- Ralph Waldo Emerson