America is a poem in our eyes; its ample geography dazzles the imagination, and it will not wait long for metres.
Interpretation
Emerson perceives America as a living poem filled with natural beauty and vastness that inspires creativity.
Ralph Waldo Emerson suggests that America embodies the essence of poetry through its vast landscapes and diverse geography. He highlights how the country's beauty captivates the imagination, urging that such a wonder cannot be confined to traditional forms of artistic expression. Instead, it calls for spontaneous admiration and creative interpretation as America continually unfolds its grandeur, inviting all to witness its lyrical nature.
In practice
A writer may quote Emerson during a literary festival to emphasize the relationship between nature and creativity.
It is plain that there is no separate essence called courage, no cup or cell in the brain, no vessel in the heart containing drops or atoms that make or give this virtue; but it is the right or healthy state of every man, when he is free to do that which is constitutional to him to do.
Few people have any next, they live from hand to mouth without a plan, and are always at the end of their line.
Men cease to interest us when we find their limitations
Tis the good reader that makes the good book; a good head cannot read amiss: in every book he finds passages which seem confidences or asides hidden from all else and unmistakeably meant for his ear.
The world belongs to the energetic.
Hast thou named all the birds without a gun?
Tonight I feel the stars are out_x000D_ to use me for target practice.
n OthI n g can s urPas s the m y SteR y of s tilLnes s
When I breathe,_x000D_ This sound in my chest_x000D_ Lonelier than the winter wind
April is the cruelest month, breeding lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain.
The sky leans on me, me, the one upright among all horizontals.
Especially when the October wind With frosty fingers punishes my hair, Caught by the crabbing sun I walk on fire And cast a shadow crab upon the land, By the sea's side, hearing the noise of birds, Hearing the raven cough in winter sticks, My busy heart who shudders as she talks Sheds the syllabic blood and drains her words.
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