Sunday-- no planning, not much doing, reading and walking. . .
and stumbling on the wisdom of Ralph Waldo Emerson and into the lush soothing meadow of transcendentalism:
Nothing can bring you peace but yourself.
I like the silent church before the service begins, better than any preaching. How far off, how cool, how chaste the persons look, begirt each one with a precinct or sanctuary!
My book should smell of pines and resound with the hum of insects. The swallow over my window should interweave that thread or straw he carries in his bill into my web also.
A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by little statesmen and philosophers and divines.
Is it so bad, then, to be misunderstood? Pythagoras was misunderstood, and Socrates, and Jesus, and Luther, and Copernicus, and Galileo, and Newton, and every pure and wise spirit that ever took flesh. To be great is to be misunderstood.
Nature cannot be surprised in undress. Beauty breaks in everywhere.
hunger for wealth. . .reduces the planet to a garden.
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