Emerson
From wise men the world inherits a literature of wisdom, characterized less by its scheduled education than by its strength and shortness of statement. Thought provoking and discerning, Ralph Waldo Emerson gave a cynical world an unbiased perspective on human frailty. Emerson first and foremost was a poet. He has not written a line which is not conceived in the interest of mankind. He never writes in the interest of a section, of a party, of a church, or a man, always in the interest of mankind." (Carlyle 19) From Emerson's poetry the reader is able to derive a central theme of idealism and reality. Emerson was "a poet that sings to us with thoughts beyond his song." (Howe) His never ending search for immortality was always resolved by his reencounter with reality. In his poem "Days" he expresses the purely ideal or mystical half of his thoughts. "Days" suggests both points of view and is structurally divided into two parts. The first six lines personify the "Days" as demigods who offer the gifts of life to mortals.Daughters of Time, the hypocritic Days,muffled and dumb, like barefoot dervishes,And marching single in an endless file, Bring diadems and fagots in their hands.
" Charles Scribner's Sons, (1898) : 3-108. He says,I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods, Spreading its leaflets Blooms in a damp nook, to please the desertAnd the sluggish brook. The first lines express the normality of the flower. In every piece of his writing there is an underlying theme of idealism and reality. He observes the trials and obstacles which accompany man's decision but essentially realizes that strength comes from them. Idealism would be represent the better sides of man's nature and instead show these sides as faultless. Why must man kill to understand and be glutinous with greed and predisposition. He is basically saying that men should face their fear and dive into them rather than ignore them. I, too late, under her solemn fillet saw the scorn. They say nothing and make no efforts to intervene in man's path. And though thy fortune and thy formBe broken, waste and void, Though suns be spent, of thy life-rootNo fibre is destroyed.
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