Ralph Waldo Emerson

Here you will find the Long Poem The Problem of poet Ralph Waldo Emerson

The Problem

I like the church; I like a cowl; 
I love a prophet of the soul; 
And on my heart monastic aisles 
Fall like sweet strains, or pensive smiles; 
Yet not for all his faith can see 
Would I that cowlèd churchman be. 

Why should the vest on him allure, 
Which I could not on me endure? 

Not from a vain or shallow thought 
His awful Jove young Phidias brought; 
Never from lips of cunning fell 
The thrilling Delphic oracle; 
Out from the heart of nature rolled 
The burdens of the Bible old; 
The litanies of nations came, 
Like the volcano's tongue of flame, 
Up from the burning core below,-- 
The canticles of love and woe: 
The hand that rounded Peter's dome 
And groined the aisles of Christian Rome 
Wrought in a sad sincerity; 
Himself from God he could not free; 
He builded better than he knew;-- 
The conscious stone to beauty grew. 

Knowst thou what wove yon wood bird's nest 
Of leaves and feathers from her breast? 
Or how the fish outbuilt her shell, 
Painting with morn each annual cell? 
Or how the sacred pine tree adds 
To her old leaves new myriads? 
Such and so grew these holy piles, 
Whilst love and terror laid the tiles. 
Earth proudly wears the Parthenon, 
As the best gem upon her zone, 
And Morning opes with haste her lids 
To gaze upon the Pyramids; 
O'er England's abbeys bends the sky, 
As on its friends, with kindred eye; 
For out of Thought's interior sphere 
These wonders rose to upper air; 
And Nature gladly gave them place, 
Adopted them into her race, 
And granted them an equal date 
With Andes and with Ararat. 

These temples grew as grows the grass; 
Art might obey, but not surpass. 
The passive Master lent his hand 
To the vast soul that o'er him planned; 
And the same power that reared the shrine 
Bestrode the tribes that knelt within. 
Ever the fiery Pentecost 
Girds with one flame the countless host, 
Trances the heart through chanting choirs, 
And through the priest the mind inspires. 

The word unto the prophet spoken 
Was writ on tables yet unbroken; 
The word by seers or sibyls told, 
In groves of oak, or fames of gold, 
Still floats upon the morning wind, 
Still whispters to the willing mind. 
One accent of the Holy Ghost 
The heedless world hath never lost. 
I know what say the fathers wise,-- 
The Book itself before me lies, 
Old Chrysostom, best Augustine, 
And he who blent both in his line, 
The younger Golden Lips or mines, 
Taylor, the Shakespeare of divines. 
His words are music in my ear. 
I see his cowlèd portrait dear; 
And yet, for all his faith could see, 
I would not the good bishop be.