"LIT ETHC" - читать интересную книгу автора (Emerson Ralph Waldo )

is yet to be written. Poetry has scarce chanted its first song. The
perpetual admonition of nature to us, is, `The world is new, untried.
Do not believe the past. I give you the universe a virgin to-day.'

By Latin and English poetry, we were born and bred in an
oratorio of praises of nature, -- flowers, birds, mountains, sun, and
moon; -- yet the naturalist of this hour finds that he knows nothing,
by all their poems, of any of these fine things; that he has
conversed with the mere surface and show of them all; and of their
essence, or of their history, knows nothing. Further inquiry will
discover that nobody, -- that not these chanting poets themselves,
knew any thing sincere of these handsome natures they so commended;
that they contented themselves with the passing chirp of a bird, that
they saw one or two mornings, and listlessly looked at sunsets, and
repeated idly these few glimpses in their song. But go into the
forest, you shall find all new and undescribed. The screaming of the
wild geese flying by night; the thin note of the companionable
titmouse, in the winter day; the fall of swarms of flies, in autumn,
from combats high in the air, pattering down on the leaves like rain;
the angry hiss of the wood-birds; the pine throwing out its pollen
for the benefit of the next century; the turpentine exuding from the
tree; -- and, indeed, any vegetation; any animation; any and all, are
alike unattempted. The man who stands on the seashore, or who
rambles in the woods, seems to be the first man that ever stood on
the shore, or entered a grove, his sensations and his world are so
novel and strange. Whilst I read the poets, I think that nothing new
can be said about morning and evening. But when I see the daybreak,
I am not reminded of these Homeric, or Shakspearian, or Miltonic, or
Chaucerian pictures. No; but I feel perhaps the pain of an alien
world; a world not yet subdued by the thought; or, I am cheered by
the moist, warm, glittering, budding, melodious hour, that takes down
the narrow walls of my soul, and extends its life and pulsation to
the very horizon. _That_ is morning, to cease for a bright hour to
be a prisoner of this sickly body, and to become as large as nature.

The noonday darkness of the American forest, the deep, echoing,
aboriginal woods, where the living columns of the oak and fir tower
up from the ruins of the trees of the last millennium; where, from
year to year, the eagle and the crow see no intruder; the pines,
bearded with savage moss, yet touched with grace by the violets at
their feet; the broad, cold lowland, which forms its coat of vapor
with the stillness of subterranean crystallization; and where the
traveller, amid the repulsive plants that are native in the swamp,
thinks with pleasing terror of the distant town; this beauty, --
haggard and desert beauty, which the sun and the moon, the snow and
the rain, repaint and vary, has never been recorded by art, yet is
not indifferent to any passenger. All men are poets at heart. They
serve nature for bread, but her loveliness overcomes them sometimes.
What mean these journeys to Niagara; these pilgrims to the White
Hills? Men believe in the adaptations of utility, always: in the