Poems no less..

I was seated by the shore of a small pond, about a mile and a half south of the village of Concord and somewhat higher than it, in the midst of an extensive wood between that town and Lincoln, and about two miles south of that our only field known to fame, Concord Battle Ground;

The Vedas say, “All intelligences awake with the morning.” Poetry and art, and the fairest and most memorable of the actions of men, date from such an hour. All poets and heroes, like Memnon, are the children of Aurora, and emit their music at sunrise.

To be awake is to be alive. I have never yet met a man who was quite awake. How could I have looked him in the face?

Walden, or, Life in the woods: (Henry David Thoreau)

The garden of love

I went to the garden of Love,
And saw what i had never had seen:
A Chapel was built in the mist,
Where i used to play in the green

And the gates of this Chapel were shut,
And “thou shalt not” writ over the door;
So i turne’d to the garden of Love
That so many sweet flowers bore;\

And i saw it was filled with graves,
And tomb-stones where flowers should be;
And Priests in black gowns where walking their rounds,
And binding with briars my joys and desires.\

Songs of Experience: (William Blake)