The good, we use,
The wise we cannot choose;
These there are none above.
The good, they know and love,
But are not known again
By those of lesser ken.
They do not choose us with their eyes,
But they transfix with their advice;
No partial sympathy they feel
With private woe or private weal,
But with the universe joy and sigh,
Whose knowledge is their sympathy.
Good-night.
HENRY THOREAU.
P. S. I am sorry to send such a medley as this to you. I have forwarded Lane’s Dial to Munroe, and he tells the expressman that all is right.
