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)

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Alone

From childhood’s hour I have not been, As others were I have not seen, As others saw I could not bring My passions from a common spring— From the same source I have not taken, My sorrow— I could not awaken, My heart to joy at the same tone And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone

Then—in my childhood—in the dawn Of a most stormy life—was drawn From ev’ry depth of good and ill, The mystery which binds me still— From the torrent, or the fountain—From the red cliff of the mountain— From the sun that ‘round me roll’d, In its autumn tint of gold— From the lightning in the sky, As it pass’d me flying by— From the thunder, and the storm—And the cloud that took the form (When the rest of Heaven was blue) Of a demon in my view—

Edgar Allan Poe