Found Poem from Henry David Thoreau's Walden
Taken and arranged from a chapter of Walden.
Confined to written dialect,
We forget the language all things speak.
What is poetry compared with what is to be seen?
Sacrifice not the bloom of the present moment
To any work of the head or hands.
There is a stillness:
The noiseless window of God.
Mind not how the hours go.
It was morning, now it is evening.
Days not bearing the stamp of heathen deities,
Nor minced into hours by the ticking clock,
Lived like birds and flowers;
The natural day.
Walden, Henry David Thoreau (1854).