Emerson's poetry has at least one of the qualities of true poetry--it always pleases and occasionally delights. Great poetry it may not be, but it has the happy knack of slipping in between our fancies, and of clinging like ivy to the masonry of the thought-structure beneath which each one of us has his dwelling. I must be allowed room for two quotations, one from the stanzas called _Give all to Love_, the other from _Wood Notes_. 'Cling with life to the maid; But when the surprise, First shadow of surmise, Flits across her bosom young Of a joy apart from thee, Free be she, fancy-free, Nor thou detain her vesture's hem, Nor the palest rose she flung From her summer's diadem. Though thou loved her as thyself, As a self of purer clay, Though her parting dims the day, Stealing grace from all alive; Heartily know When half-gods go, The gods arrive.' The lines from _Wood Notes_ run as follows: 'Come learn with me the fatal song Which knits the world in music strong, Whereto every bosom dances, Kindled with courageous fancies; Come lift thine eyes to lofty rhymes Of things with things, of times with times, Primal chimes of sun and shade, Of sound and echo, man and maid; The land reflected in the flood; Body with shadow still pursued. For nature beats in perfect tune And rounds with rhyme her every rune; Whether she work in land or sea Or hide underground her alchemy. Thou canst not wave thy staff in air, Or dip thy paddle in the lake, But it carves the bow of beauty there, And the ripples in rhymes the oar forsake. Not unrelated, unaffied, But to each thought and thing allied, Is perfect nature's every part, Rooted in the mighty heart.'