Henry David Thoreau

(12 July 1817 – 6 May 1862 / Concord, Massachusetts)

Henry David Thoreau Poems

1. Tall Ambrosia 4/26/2012
2. To A Marsh Hawk In Spring 4/26/2012
3. Sympathy 4/26/2012
4. Away! Away! Away! Away! 4/26/2012
5. Within The Circuit Of This Plodding Life 4/12/2010
6. The Fisher’s Boy 4/12/2010
7. Though All The Fates 4/12/2010
8. The Poet's Delay 4/12/2010
9. Great God, I Ask For No Meaner Pelf 4/26/2012
10. I Was Made Erect And Lone 4/26/2012
11. What's The Railroad To Me? 1/3/2003
12. Salmon Brook 4/12/2010
13. They Who Prepare My Evening Meal Below 1/3/2003
14. The Inward Morning 1/3/2003
15. Light-Winged Smoke 4/12/2010
16. Song Of Nature 4/12/2010
17. Like A Soul 4/12/2010
18. Sic Vita 1/3/2003
19. Men Say They Know Many Things 4/12/2010
20. All Things Are Current Found 4/12/2010
21. On Fields O'Er Which The Reaper's Hand Has Pass'D 1/3/2003
22. I Am A Parcel Of Vain Strivings Tied 1/3/2003
23. Let Such Pure Hate Still Underprop 1/3/2003
24. Low-Anchored Cloud 1/3/2003
25. Pray To What Earth Does This Sweet Cold Belong 1/3/2003
26. Prayer 1/3/2003
27. Smoke 1/3/2003
28. Rumors From An Aeolian Harp 1/3/2003
29. Nature 4/12/2010
30. My Life Has Been The Poem 4/12/2010
31. I Am The Autumnal Sun 1/3/2003
32. Epitaph On The World 1/3/2003
33. I Knew A Man By Sight 1/3/2003
34. Winter Memories 1/3/2003
35. Mist 1/3/2003
36. The Summer Rain 1/3/2003
37. Inspiration 1/3/2003
38. Conscience 1/3/2003
39. Indeed, Indeed I Cannot Tell 1/3/2003
40. The Moon 1/3/2003
Best Poem of Henry David Thoreau


I think awhile of Love, and while I think,
Love is to me a world,
Sole meat and sweetest drink,
And close connecting link
Tween heaven and earth.

I only know it is, not how or why,
My greatest happiness;
However hard I try,
Not if I were to die,
Can I explain.

I fain would ask my friend how it can be,
But when the time arrives,
Then Love is more lovely
Than anything to me,
And so I'm dumb.

For if the truth were known, Love cannot speak,
But only thinks and does;
Though surely out 'twill leak
Without the help of...

Read the full of Friendship

The Summer Rain

My books I'd fain cast off, I cannot read,
'Twixt every page my thoughts go stray at large
Down in the meadow, where is richer feed,
And will not mind to hit their proper targe.

Plutarch was good, and so was Homer too,
Our Shakespeare's life were rich to live again,
What Plutarch read, that was not good nor true,
Nor Shakespeare's books, unless his books were men.

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