by Ralph Waldo Emerson

What care I, so they stand the same,— Things of the heavenly mind,— How long the power to give them fame Tarries yet behind? Thus far to-day your favors reach, O fair, appeasing Presences! Ye taught my lips a single speech, And a thousand silences. Space grants beyond his fated road No inch to the god of day, And copious language still bestowed One word, no more, to say.