Page:Poems, Household Edition, Emerson, 1904.djvu/432

396 And a few joys, a few peculiar charms,

For him round-in the melancholy hours

And reconcile him to the common days.

Not many men see beauty in the fogs

Of close low pine-woods in a river town;

Yet unto me not morn's magnificence,

Nor the red rainbow of a summer eve,

Nor Rome, nor joyful Paris, nor the halls

Of rich men blazing hospitable light,

Nor wit, nor eloquence,—no, nor even the song

Of any woman that is now alive,—

Hath such a soul, such divine influence,

Such resurrection of the happy past,

As is to me when I behold the morn

Ope in such low moist roadside, and beneath

Peep the blue violets out of the black loam,

Pathetic silent poets that sing to me

Thine elegy, sweet singer, sainted wife.

March, 1833.

WRITTEN AT ROME

in Rome. Why, Rome is lonely too;—

Besides, you need not be alone; the soul

Shall have society of its own rank.

Be great, be true, and all the Scipios,

The Catos, the wise patriots of Rome,