Ralph Waldo Emerson

The wings of Time are black and white,                                                                                             The hands are dark, the face is light,                                                                                                        Pied with morning and with night.                                                                                                  Never left, but always right.                                                                                                                   Mountain tall and ocean deep                                                                                                               Up comes down with every leap                                                                                                          Trembling balance duly keep,                                                                                                                  To the core they surely creep.                                                                                                                        In changing moon, in tidal wave,                                                                                                             If seen or not, works still the salve,                                                                                                           Glows the feud of Want and Have.                                                                                                  Within your suit that’s anti-grav.                                                                                                              Gauge of more and less through space                                                                                              The effects of both cannot erase                                                                                                          Electric star and pencil plays,                                                                                                              Near or far, it has its ways.                                                                                                                         The lonely Earth amid the balls                                                                                                              To the sun allegiance falls                                                                                                                          That hurry through the eternal halls,                                                                                                    In a vacuum, duty calls,                                                                                                                                   A makeweight flying to the void,                                                                                                       From whence it came it’s thus employed,                                                                                  Supplemental asteroid,                                                                                                                           Extra cargo been deployed,                                                                                                                           Or compensatory spark,                                                                                                            Burning brightly makes its mark,                                                                                                            Shoots across the neutral Dark.                                                                                                        Splits the sky, this brilliant arc.


Man’s the elm, and Wealth the vine;                                                                                             Nature says what’s yours and mine;                                                                                                    Stanch and strong the tendrils twine:                                                                                              Such the power that’s divine:                                                                                                               Though the frail ringlets thee deceive,                                                                                               No cause for woe or ever grieve,                                                                                                             None from its stock that vine can reave.                                                                                            So sure the lock, in this believe.                                                                                                                 Fear not, then, thou child infirm,                                                                                                    What’s inside stops every germ,                                                                                                            There’s no god dare wrong a worm.                                                                                             So short may be its mortal term.                                                                                                           Laurel crowns cleave to deserts,                                                                                                             If with him too much perverts,                                                                                                                    And power to him who power exerts;                                                                                                 For more brings more, each act asserts;                                                                                                  Hast not thy share? On winged feet,                                                                                                      As angels bring when called to greet,                                                                                                           Lo! it rushes thee to meet;                                                                                                                       To hand to you this luscious treat;                                                                                                             And all that Nature made thy own,                                                                                                       As if were made for you alone,                                                                                                              Floating in air or pent in stone,                                                                                                   Harmony in every tone,                                                                                                                               Will rive the hills and swim the sea,                                                                                                       As for you, it came to me,                                                                                                                           And, like thy shadow, follow thee.                                                                                                With love and peace your destiny.

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