human
Can you write me a poem about bronson alcott?
assistant
Sure, here's a poem about bronson alcott:
  "We sometimes hear of one who nearly died of a broken
heart--but Bronson Alcott nearly died of a broken dream."
service by its manners, as if it did it not."
"Enthusiasm is existence; earnestness, life's exceeding great
"Our dispositions are the atmosphere we breathe, and we carry our
"One cannot be well read unless well seasoned in thought and
experience. Life makes the man. And he must have lived in all his
Living at the breadth of Shakespeare, the depth of Plato, the
height of Christ gives the mastery, ... or if not that, a worthy
discipleship."
"Nature is the good Baptist, plunging us in her Jordan streams to
wheresoever our lodge, there is but the thin casement between us
and immensity.... Nature without, Mind within, inviting us forth
into the solacing air, the blue ether, if we will but shake our
So also with one of his much-laughed-at theories of farming. He
Like Bunyan's pilgrim with his pack,
Forth went the dreaming youth
To seek, to find, and make his own
Wisdom, virtue, and truth.
Life was his book, and patiently
He studied each hard page;
By turns reformer, outcast, priest,
Philosopher and sage.
Christ was his Master, and he made
His life a gospel sweet;
Found a disciple meet.
The noblest and best his friends,
Faithful and fond, though few;
Eager to listen, learn, and pay
The love and honor due.
Power and place, silver and gold,
He neither asked nor sought;
Only to serve his fellowmen,
With heart and word and thought.
A pilgrim still, but in his pack
No sins to frighten or oppress;
But wisdom, morals, piety,
To teach, to warn and bless.
The world passed by, nor cared to take
The treasure he could give;
Apart he sat, content to wait
And beautifully live;
Unsaddened by long, lonely years
Of want, neglect, and wrong,
His soul to him a kingdom was,
Steadfast, serene, and strong.
Magnanimous and pure his life,
Tranquil its happy end;
Patience and peace his handmaids were,
Death an immortal friend.
For him no monuments need rise,
No laurels make his pall;
The mem'ry of the good and wise
Outshines, outlives them all.
A little grey curl from my father's head
I find unburned on the hearth,
And give it a place in my diary here,
With a feeling half sadness, half mirth.
For the long white locks are our special pride,
Though he smiles at his daughter's praise;
But, oh, they have grown each year more thin,
Till they are now but a silvery haze.
That wise old head! (though it does grow bald
With the knocks hard fortune may give)
Has a store of faith and hope and trust,
Which have taught him how to live.
Though the hat be old, there's a face below
Which telleth to those who look
The history of a good man's life,
And it cheers like a blessed book.
Many a year of his wandering youth;
A peddler still, with a far richer pack,
His wares are wisdom and love and truth.
But now, as then, few purchase or pause,
For he cannot learn the tricks of trade;
Little silver he wins, but that which time
Is sprinkling thick on his meek old head.
But there'll come a day when the busy world,
Grown sick with its folly and pride,
Will remember the mild-faced peddler then
Whom it rudely had set aside;
Will remember the wares he offered it once
And will seek to find him again,
Eager to purchase truth, wisdom, and love,
But, oh, it will seek him in vain.
It will find but his footsteps left behind
Along the byways of life,
Where he patiently walked, striving the while
To quiet its tumult and strife.
But the peddling pilgrim has laid down his pack
And gone with his earnings away;
How small will they seem, remembering the debt
Which the world too late would repay.
God bless the dear head! and crown it with years
Untroubled and calmly serene;
That the autumn of life more golden may be
For the heats and the storms that have been.
My heritage none can ever dispute,
My fortune will bring neither strife nor care;
'Tis an honest name, 'tis a beautiful life,
And the silver lock of my father's hair.
In high Olympus' sacred shade
A gift Minerva wrought
For her beloved philosopher
Immersed in deepest thought.
A shield to guard his aged breast
With its enchanted mesh
When he his nectar and ambrosia took
To strengthen and refresh.
Long may he live to use the life
The hidden goddess gave,
To keep unspotted to the end
The gentle, just, and brave.
December, 1887.               LOUISA M. ALCOTT.
As the wind at play with a spark
Of fire that glows through the night;
As the speed of the soaring lark
That wings to the sky his flight--
So swiftly thy soul has sped
In its upward wonderful way,
Like the lark when the dawn is red,
In search of the shining day.
_Thou_ art not with the frozen dead
Whom earth in the earth we lay,
While the bearers softly tread,
And the mourners kneel and pray;
The soul has taken its flight--
Out of the finite dark,
Into the infinite Light.
The writer of this article recalls one day when the late Frank B.