|
|
Promise
By Ralph Waldo Emerson
In countless upward-striving waves
The moon-drawn tide-wave strives;
In thousand far-transplanted grafts
The parent fruit survives;
So, in the new-born millions,
The perfect Adam lives.
Not less are summer mornings dear
To every child they wake,
And each with novel life his sphere
Fills for his proper sake.
Extra Info:
|
|
Printable Page
Add Your Thoughts on this poem.
This page viewed 492 times.
|
|
