With tremor of heartstrings magnetic,
With thoughts as thunders in throng,
With consonant ardours of chords
That pierce men’s souls as with swords,
And hale them hearing along.
As long ago as 1855, Emerson, a clear sighted critic, wrote: “I am not blind to the worth of the wonderful gift of ‘Leaves of grass.’ I find it the most extraordinary piece of wit and wisdom that America has yet contributed. I am very happy in reading it, as great power makes us happy. I give you joy of your free and brave thought. I have great joy in it; I find incomparable things, said incomparably well, as they should be.”
ON THANKSGIVING DAY.
Thanks in old age—thanks ere I go,
For health, the midday sun, the impalpable air—for life, mere life,
For precious, ever-lingering memories (of you, my mother, dear—you, father—you, brothers, sisters, friends).