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Nature is a mutable cloud which is always and never the same. Options
Daemon
Posted: Tuesday, March 3, 2015 12:00:00 AM
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Nature is a mutable cloud which is always and never the same.

Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882)
sandeep patra
Posted: Tuesday, March 3, 2015 12:33:04 AM

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Location: Koraput, Orissa, India
Yes nature needs to be changed with time else the individual tends to become stagnant
Milica Boghunovich
Posted: Tuesday, March 3, 2015 1:03:17 AM
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Nature is a mutable cloud which is always and never the same.

Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882)

Human/huwoman nature is a complex and volatile phenomenon!
Vit Babenco
Posted: Tuesday, March 3, 2015 1:08:43 AM

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Location: Ivanovo, Ivanovo, Russia
And man destroys nature...
KSPavan
Posted: Tuesday, March 3, 2015 1:49:47 AM

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Location: Kolkata, Bengal, India
Song of Nature

Mine are the night and morning,
The pits of air, the gulf of space,
The sportive sun, the gibbous moon,
The innumerable days.

I hid in the solar glory,
I am dumb in the pealing song,
I rest on the pitch of the torrent,
In slumber I am strong.

No numbers have counted my tallies,
No tribes my house can fill,
I sit by the shining Fount of Life,
And pour the deluge still;

And ever by delicate powers
Gathering along the centuries
From race on race the rarest flowers,
My wreath shall nothing miss.

And many a thousand summers
My apples ripened well,
And light from meliorating stars
With firmer glory fell.

I wrote the past in characters
Of rock and fire the scroll,
The building in the coral sea,
The planting of the coal.

And thefts from satellites and rings
And broken stars I drew,
And out of spent and aged things
I formed the world anew;

What time the gods kept carnival,
Tricked out in star and flower,
And in cramp elf and saurian forms
They swathed their too much power.

Time and Thought were my surveyors,
They laid their courses well,
They boiled the sea, and baked the layers
Or granite, marl, and shell.

But he, the man-child glorious,--
Where tarries he the while?
The rainbow shines his harbinger,
The sunset gleams his smile.

My boreal lights leap upward,
Forthright my planets roll,
And still the man-child is not born,
The summit of the whole.

Must time and tide forever run?
Will never my winds go sleep in the west?
Will never my wheels which whirl the sun
And satellites have rest?

Too much of donning and doffing,
Too slow the rainbow fades,
I weary of my robe of snow,
My leaves and my cascades;

I tire of globes and races,
Too long the game is played;
What without him is summer's pomp,
Or winter's frozen shade?

I travail in pain for him,
My creatures travail and wait;
His couriers come by squadrons,
He comes not to the gate.

Twice I have moulded an image,
And thrice outstretched my hand,
Made one of day, and one of night,
And one of the salt sea-sand.

One in a Judaean manger,
And one by Avon stream,
One over against the mouths of Nile,
And one in the Academe.

I moulded kings and saviours,
And bards o'er kings to rule;--
But fell the starry influence short,
The cup was never full.

Yet whirl the glowing wheels once more,
And mix the bowl again;
Seethe, fate! the ancient elements,
Heat, cold, wet, dry, and peace, and pain.

Let war and trade and creeds and song
Blend, ripen race on race,
The sunburnt world a man shall breed
Of all the zones, and countless days.

No ray is dimmed, no atom worn,
My oldest force is good as new,
And the fresh rose on yonder thorn
Gives back the bending heavens in dew.

Ralph Waldo Emerson
Bully_rus
Posted: Tuesday, March 3, 2015 2:30:16 AM
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To be, or what to be, that is the question...

Do you see yonder cloud that's almost in shape of a camel?

By the mass, and 'tis like a camel, indeed.

Methinks it is like a weasel.

It is backed like a weasel.

Or like a whale?

Very like a whale.
Omar Mariani
Posted: Tuesday, March 3, 2015 7:23:39 AM

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Location: Buenos Aires, Buenos Aires F.D., Argentina
An oxymoron is a figure of speech that juxtaposes elements that appear to be contradictory. Some oxymora reveal inadvertent errors but others are purposely crafted to reveal a paradox, intentionally made up for effect and this must be the case here

Something MUTABLE is supposed to change, it can never be the same. "ALWAYS THE SAME" and "NEVER THE SAME" : a veritable paradox
Sri Harsha
Posted: Tuesday, March 3, 2015 8:35:08 AM

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Location: Tirupati, Andhra Pradesh, India
As nature tranforms man should also change himself according to it.

monamagda
Posted: Tuesday, March 3, 2015 9:39:24 AM

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From Emerson's Essays - Essay I page 11

Upborne and surrounded as we are by this all-creating nature, soft and fluid as a cloud or the air, why should we be such hard pedants, and magnify a few forms? Why should we make account of time, or of magnitude, or of figure? The soul knows them not, and genius, obeying its law, knows how to play with them as a young child plays with graybeards and in churches. Genius studies the causal thought, and, far back in the womb of things, sees the rays parting from one orb, that diverge ere they fall by infinite diameters. Genius watches the monad through all his masks as he performs the metempsychosis of nature. Genius detects through the fly, through the caterpillar, through the grub, through the egg, the constant individual; through countless individuals, the fixed species; through many species, the genus; through all genera, the steadfast type; through all the kingdoms of organized life, the eternal unity. Nature is a mutable cloud, which is always and never the same. She casts the same thought into troops of forms, as a poet makes twenty fables with one moral. Through the bruteness and toughness of matter, a subtle spirit bends all things to its own will. The adamant streams into soft but precise form before it, and, whilst I look at it, its outline and texture are changed again. Nothing is so fleeting as form; yet never does it quite deny itself. In man we still trace the remains or hints of all that we esteem badges of servitude in the lower races; yet in him they enhance his nobleness and grace; as Io, in Aeschylus, transformed to a cow, offends the imagination; but how changed, when as Isis in Egypt she meets Osiris-Jove, a beautiful woman, with nothing of the metamorphosis left but the lunar horns as the splendid ornament of her brows!

http://www.emersoncentral.com/history.htm
striker
Posted: Tuesday, March 3, 2015 10:00:28 AM
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nature never stop
Dr WWWW
Posted: Tuesday, March 3, 2015 12:43:18 PM

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Thank you monamagda for the passage. I located it also, but still find it quite as mystifying as the fragment quoted. He seems to say that the generating formula of creation, though unchanging, produces the multitude we see about us; and we, humanity are the beautiful outcome of this creative principle, though ascending among less noble forms.

What "badges of servitude" is he referring to when he writes:

"In man we still trace the remains or hints of all that we esteem badges of servitude in the lower races; yet in him they enhance his nobleness and grace"
Fredric-frank Myers
Posted: Wednesday, March 4, 2015 2:16:01 PM

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Location: Apache Junction, Arizona, United States
Very, very true......
Καroιiηε Frαzão
Posted: Wednesday, March 4, 2015 6:08:58 PM

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Very nice quote'Applause Applause
solomia
Posted: Monday, March 23, 2015 3:27:53 PM

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Location: The Hague, South Holland, Netherlands
mmm. so beautiful. From otherside nature to human nature. Want to share with my favorite passage by Emerson
Texts : Essays: First Series : SELF-RELIANCE

But why should you keep your head over your shoulder? Why drag about this corpse of your memory, lest you contradict somewhat you have stated in this or that public place? Suppose you should contradict yourself; what then? It seems to be a rule of wisdom never to rely on your memory alone, scarcely even in acts of pure memory, but to bring the past for judgment into the thousand-eyed present, and live ever in a new day. In your metaphysics you have denied personality to the Deity: yet when the devout motions of the soul come, yield to them heart and life, though they should clothe God with shape and color. Leave your theory, as Joseph his coat in the hand of the harlot, and flee. =d> =d> =d>
I suppose no man can violate his nature. All the sallies of his will are rounded in by the law of his being, as the inequalities of Andes and Himmaleh are insignificant in the curve of the sphere. Nor does it matter how you gauge and try him. A character is like an acrostic or Alexandrian stanza; — read it forward, backward, or across, it still spells the same thing. In this pleasing, contrite wood-life which God allows me, let me record day by day my honest thought without prospect or retrospect, and, I cannot doubt, it will be found symmetrical, though I mean it not, and see it not. My book should smell of pines and resound with the hum of insects. The swallow over my window should interweave that thread or straw he carries in his bill into my web also. We pass for what we are. Character teaches above our wills. Men imagine that they communicate their virtue or vice only by overt actions, and do not see that virtue or vice emit a breath every moment.



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