Ralph Waldo Emerson Quotes
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Every spirit makes its house, and we can give a shrewd guess from the house to the inhabitant.
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I hung my verse in the wind Time and tide their faults will find.
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In the morning a man walks with his whole body; in the evening, only with his legs.
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Coal is a portable climate.
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You have just dined, and however scrupulously the slaughterhouse is concealed in the graceful distance of miles, there is complicity.
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Standing on the bare ground, - my head bathed by the blithe air, and uplifted into infinite space, - all mean egotism vanishes. I become a transparent eye-ball; I am nothing; I see all; the currents of the Universal Being circulate through me; I am part or particle of God.
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And when his hours are numbered, and the world Is all his own, retiring, as he were not, Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work, The frolic architecture of the snow.
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Every particular in nature, a leaf, a drop, a crystal, a moment of time is related to the whole, and partakes of the perfection of the whole.
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For the prevision is allied Unto the thing so signified; Or say, the foresight that awaits Is the same Genius that creates.
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Olympian bards who sung Divine Ideas below, Which always find us young, And always keep us so.
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The revelation of thought takes men out of servitude into freedom.
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But genius looks forward: the eyes of men are set in his forehead, not in his hindhead: man hopes: genius creates.
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There is properly no history; only biography.
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Out from the heart of Nature rolled The burdens of the Bible old.
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Bad times have a scientific value. These are occasions a good learner would not miss.
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Why need I volumes, if one word suffice?
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In different hours, a man represents each of several of his ancestors, as if there were seven or eight of us rolled up in each man's skin, - seven or eight ancestors at least, - and they constitute the variety of notes for that new piece of music which his life is.
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Who hears me, who understands me, becomes mine, a possession for all time.
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Born for success he seemed, With grace to win, with heart to hold, With shining gifts that took all eyes.
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There is an optical illusion about every person we meet.
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Let us draw a lesson from nature, which always works by short ways. When the fruit is ripe, it falls.
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Revolutions go not backward.
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By the rude bridge that arched the flood, Their flag to April's breeze unfurled, Here once the embattled farmers stood, And fired the shot heard round the world.
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For it is not metres, but a metre-making argument, that makes a poem, - a thought so passionate and alive, that, like the spirit of a plant or an animal, it has an architecture of its own, and adorns nature with a new thing.