Page:Poems, Emerson, 1847.djvu/79

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1.

this present, hard

Is the fortune of the bard,

Born out of time;

All his accomplishment,

From Nature's utmost treasure spent,

Booteth not him.

When the pine tosses its cones

To the song of its waterfall tones,

He speeds to the woodland walks,

To birds and trees he talks:

Cæsar of his leafy Rome,

There the poet is at home.

He goes to the river-side,—

Not hook nor line hath he;