Page:Poems, Household Edition, Emerson, 1904.djvu/271

Rh You pet! what dost here? and what for?

In these woods, thy small Labrador,

At this pinch, wee San Salvador!

What fire burns in that little chest

So frolic, stout and self-possest?

Henceforth I wear no stripe but thine;

Ashes and jet all hues outshine.

Why are not diamonds black and gray,

To ape thy dare-devil array?

And I affirm, the spacious North

Exists to draw thy virtue forth.

I think no virtue goes with size;

The reason of all cowardice

Is, that men are overgrown,

And, to be valiant, must come down

To the titmouse dimension.'

'T is good will makes intelligence,

And I began to catch the sense

Of my bird's song: 'Live out of doors

In the great woods, on prairie floors.

I dine in the sun; when he sinks in the sea,

I too have a hole in a hollow tree;

And I like less when Summer beats

With stifling beams on these retreats,

Than noontide twilights which snow makes

With tempest of the blinding flakes.

For well the soul, if stout within,

Can arm impregnably the skin;