The Apology
Think me not unkind and rude,
That I walk alone in grove and glen;
I go to the god of the wood
To fetch his word to men.
Tax not my sloth that I
Fold my arms beside the brook;
Each cloud that floated in the sky
Writes a letter in my book.
Chide me not, laborious band,
For the idle flowers I brought;
Every aster in my hand
Goes home loaded with a thought.
There was never mystery,
But 'tis figured in the flowers,
Was never secret history,
But birds tell it in the bowers.
One harvest from thy field
Homeward brought the oxen strong;
A second crop thine acres yield,
Which I gather in a song.
-Ralph Waldo Emerson
This poem really reminds me of the introverted "I'm Nobody" by Emily Dickinson. I am reading the book Quiet by Susan Cain and she speaks of introverts as "the highly sensitive..philosophical or spiritual in their orientation....creative, intuitive...love music nature, art, physical beauty. They feel exceptional strong emotion- sometimes acute bouts of joy, but also sorrow, melancholoy and fear. Highly sensitive people also process information about their environments- both physical and emotional- unusually deeply. They tend to notice subtleties that others miss- another person's shifts in mood, say or a lightbulb burning a touch too brightly."
ReplyDeleteDoesn't this seem to describe the perfect Poet? Emerson sees the gap and isn't afraid to live within it!