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Sat 11 Apr, 2009 09:33 pm
The House
Ralph Waldo Emerson
There is no architect
Can build as the muse can;
She is skilful to select
Materials for her plan;
Slow and warily to choose
Rafters of immortal pine,
Or cedar incorruptible,
Worthy her design.
She threads dark Alpine forests,
Or valleys by the sea,
In many lands, with painful steps,
Ere she can find a tree.
She ransacks mines and ledges,
And quarries every rock,
To hew the famous adamant,
For each eternal block.
She lays her beams in music,
In music every one,
To the cadence of the whirling world
Which dances round the sun.
That so they shall not be displaced
By lapses or by wars,
But for the love of happy souls
Outlive the newest stars.
@Theaetetus,
I was thinking about this poem today and how inspiration for art can come from anywhere (or is it that inspiration goes out and finds its victims to create art and beauty?). Anything can inspire, but much of the great works of art were inspired by natural beauty and that which the artificial has yet to grace.
@Theaetetus,
I love the sky
there's no point in being jealous because no mortal creation can match it... may as well love it in this moment and let it blow through without being able to hold it
because in a short time it will be replaced with another just as awesome
@Theaetetus,
That reminds me of Heraclitus. The sky itself remains, but the composition of the sky changes so that a new sky is born.
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