Great poetry of Henry David Thoreau
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Let such pure Hate still underprop by Henry David Thoreau

“Friends, Romans, Countrymen, and Lovers.”

Let such pure hate still underprop

Our love, that we may be

Each other’s conscience,

And have our sympathy

Mainly from thence.
We’ll one another treat like gods,

And all the faith we have

In virtue and in truth, bestow

On either, and suspicion leave

To gods below.
Two solitary stars–

Unmeasured systems far

Between us roll;

But by our conscious light we are

Determined to one pole.
What need confound the sphere?–

Love can afford to wait;

For it no hour’s too late

That witnesseth one duty’s end,

Or to another doth beginning lend.
It will subserve no use,

More than the tints of flowers;

Only the independent guest

Frequents its bowers,

Inherits its bequest.
No speech, though kind, has it;

But kinder silence doles

Unto its mates;

By night consoles,

By day congratulates.
What saith the tongue to tongue?

What hearest ear of ear?

By the decrees of fate

From year to year,

Does it communicate.
Pathless the gulf of feeling yawns;

No trivial bridge of words,

Or arch of boldest span,

Can leap the moat that girds

The sincere man.
No show of bolts and bars

Can keep the foeman out,

Or ‘scape his secret mine,

Who entered with the doubt

That drew the line.
No warder at the gate

Can let the friendly in;

But, like the sun, o’er all

He will the castle win,

And shine along the wall.
There’s nothing in the world I know

That can escape from love,

For every depth it goes below,

And every height above.

It waits, as waits the sky,

Until the clouds go by,

Yet shines serenely on

With an eternal day,

Alike when they are gone,

And when they stay.
Implacable is Love–

Foes may be bought or teased

From their hostile intent,

But he goes unappeased

Who is on kindness bent.

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