Emerson
We took it to the woods, we two,
The book well worn and brown,
To read his words where stirring leaves
Rained their soft shadows down.
Yet as we sat and breathed the scene,
We opened not a page;
Enough that he was with us there,
Our silent, friendly sage!
His fresh “Rhodora” bloomed again;
His “Humble-bee” buzzed near;
And oh, the “Wood-notes” beautiful
He taught our souls to hear.
So our unopened book was read;
And so, in restful mood,
We and our poet, arm in arm,
Went sauntering through the wood.