There was a child went forth every day, And the first object he looked upon, that object he became.

A Song of the good green grass! A song no more of the city streets; A song of farms - a song of the soil of fields. A song with the smell of sun-dried hay, where the nimble pitchers handle the pitch-fork; A song tasting of new wheat, and of fresh-husk'd maize.

At times it has been doubtful to me if Emerson really knows or feels what Poetry is at its highest, as in the Bible, for instance, or Homer or Shakspeare. I see he covertly or plainly likes best superb verbal polish, or something old or odd

As soon as histories are properly told there is no more need of romances.

storming, enjoying, planning, loving, cautioning, Backing and filling, appearing and disappearing, I tread day and night such roads.

Each of us inevitable; Each of us limitless-each of us with his or her right upon the earth.

All truths wait in all things,/They neither hasten their own delivery nor resist it