Rumors from an Aeolian Harp in  General   

There is a vale which none hath seen,
Where foot of man has never been,
Such as here lives with toil and strife,
An anxious and a sinful life.
There every virtue has its birth,
Ere it descends upon the earth,
And thither every deed returns,
Which in the generous bosom burns.

There love is warm, and youth is young,
And poetry is yet unsung.
For Virtue still adventures there,
And freely breathes her native air.

And ever, if you hearken well,
You still may hear its vesper bell,
And tread of high-souled men go by,
Their thoughts conversing with the sky.

By Henry David Thoreau

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Other poems by Henry David Thoreau:

• Conscience
• Epitaph On The World
• Friendship
• I am the autumnal sun
• I Knew A Man By Sight
• Indeed, indeed, I cannot tell
• Inspiration
• Let such pure hate still underprop
• Low-Anchored Cloud
• My life has been the poem
• Pray to What Earth
• Prayer
• Rumors from an Aeolian Harp
• Sic Vita
• Smoke
• The Inward Morning
• The Summer Rain
• They Who Prepare my Evening Meal Below
• Within the Circuit of This Plodding Life