Читать книгу The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 01, No. 06, April, 1858 - Various - Страница 10

  Tell me, my friend, do you think that the grain would sprout in the

       furrow,

  Did it not truly accept as its summum et ultimum bonum

  That mere common and may-be indifferent soil it is set in?

  Would it have force to develope and open its young cotyledons,

  Could it compare, and reflect, and examine one thing with another?

  Would it endure to accomplish the round of its natural functions,

  Were it endowed with a sense of the general scheme of existence?

    While from Marseilles in the steamer we voyaged to Civita Vecchia,

  Vexed in the squally seas as we lay by Capraja and Elba,

  Standing, uplifted, alone on the heaving poop of the vessel,

  Looking around on the waste of the rushing incurious billows,

  "This is Nature," I said: "we are born as it were from her waters,

  Over her billows that buffet and beat us, her offspring uncared-for,

  Casting one single regard of a painful victorious knowledge,

  Into her billows that buffet and beat us we sink and are swallowed."

  This was the sense in my soul, as I swayed with the poop of the

       steamer;

  And as unthinking I sat in the ball of the famed Ariadne,

  Lo, it looked at me there from the face of a Triton in marble.

  It is the simpler thought, and I can believe it the truer.

  Let us not talk of growth; we are still in our Aqueous Ages.