poet Henry David Thoreau

Henry David Thoreau

#99 on top 500 poets

Comments about Henry David Thoreau

  • Ricky Bobby (3/21/2018 9:01:00 AM)

    I hate poems! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !

    5 person liked.
    16 person did not like.
  • Hairy ass (1/23/2018 12:18:00 PM)

    Reads like shit

    5 person liked.
    14 person did not like.
  • ed witbeck (12/28/2017 4:53:00 PM)

    thoreav and whitman book what cash how much cash the book 1930

    3 person liked.
    10 person did not like.
  • Christ Perrien (10/20/2016 2:07:00 AM)

    Trees are busy having sex with other trees for a fair part of the year. They cross-polinate all the time when they bloom. Were us better humans who might bang 10-20 of the opposite sex a year, Trees can do it with as many brethren as the wind and bees and birds can reach.

    To think they are combined by roots? LOL, NO, trees are are far more advanced and have sex with 100's of their kind in a day.

    yes I could have made a poem of this as well

    15 person liked.
    26 person did not like.
  • Mallika Achuthan Menon Mallika Achuthan Menon (11/21/2013 11:27:00 PM)

    Your creations are really good! I invite you to read my poems..

    28 person liked.
    43 person did not like.
  • MAGNUS ABRAHAM-DUKUMA (11/3/2007 7:17:00 AM)

    That's a perfect masterpiece. Kudos! Reach me on vito_ash@yahoo.com Cheers!

    33 person liked.
    72 person did not like.
Best Poem of Henry David Thoreau

Conscience

Conscience is instinct bred in the house,
Feeling and Thinking propagate the sin
By an unnatural breeding in and in.
I say, Turn it out doors,
Into the moors.
I love a life whose plot is simple,
And does not thicken with every pimple,
A soul so sound no sickly conscience binds it,
That makes the universe no worse than 't finds it.
I love an earnest soul,
Whose mighty joy and sorrow
Are not drowned in a bowl,
And brought to life to-morrow;
That lives one tragedy,
And not seventy;
A conscience worth keeping;
Laughing not weeping; ...

Read the full of Conscience

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.