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That you are fair or wise is vain, or strong, or rich, or generous; you must have also the untaught strain that sheds beauty on the rose.
-Ralph Waldo Emerson
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That You Are Fair Or Wise Is

Ralph Waldo Emerson
That you are fair or wise is vain, or strong, or rich, or generous; you must have also the untaught strain that sheds beauty on the rose.
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The rose is a rose, and was always a rose. but the theory now goes that the apple's a rose, and the pear is, and so's the plum, i suppose. the dear only knows what will next prove a rose. you, of course, are a rose - but were always a rose.
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I wonder why anyone would hesitate to be generous with their writing. i mean, if you really want to make a living, go to wall street and trade oil futures ... we're writers. we're doing something that is inherently a generous act. we're exposing ourselves to the muse and to the things that frighten us. why do that if you're not willing to be generous? and paradoxically, almost ironically, it turns out that the more generous you are, the more money you make. but that's secondary. for me, the privilege of being generous is why i get to do this.
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It always seemed to me that the herbaceous peony is the very epitome of june. larger than any rose, it has something of the cabbage rose's voluminous quality; and when it finally drops from the vase, it sheds its petticoats with a bump on the table, all in an intact heap, much as a rose will suddenly fall, making us look up from our book or conversation, to notice for one moment the death of what had still appeared to be a living beauty.
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That was the funniest thing i'd heard in days. you're kidding, right? please tell me you have a stronger motive for me than 'fair is fair.' life isn't fair, dean....nothing is fair, ever. that's the stupidest thing i've ever heard. i need to help you because fair is fair? try, 'i need you to help me so i won't rip out your spine and beat you with it.' i might respond to that. maybe.
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Love is like the wild rose-briar; friendship like the holly-tree. the holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms, but which will bloom most constantly? the wild rose-briar is sweet in spring ,its summer blossoms scent the air; yet wait till winter comes again, and who will call the wild-briar fair? then, scorn the silly rose-wreath now, and deck thee with holly's sheen, that, when december blights thy brow, he still may leave thy garland green.
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Now the autumn shudders in the rose's root. far and wide the ladders lean among the fruit. now the autumn clambers up the trellised frame, and the rose remembers the dust from which it came. brighter than the blossom on the rose's bough sits the wizened orange, bitter berry now; beauty never slumbers; all is in her name; but the rose remembers the dust from which it came.
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There was a filmy veil of soft dull mist obscuring, but not hiding, all objects, giving them a lilac hue, for the sun had not yet fully set; a robin was singing ... the leaves were more gorgeous than ever; the first touch of frost would lay them all low to the ground. already one or two kept constantly floating down, amber and golden in the low slanting sun-rays.
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September has come, it is hers whose vitality leaps in the autumn, whose nature prefers trees without leaves and a fire in the fireplace. so i give her this month and the next though the whole of my year should be hers who has rendered already so many of its days intolerable or perplexed but so many more so happy. who has left a scent on my life, and left my walls dancing over and over with her shadow whose hair is twined in all my waterfalls and all of london littered with remembered kisses.
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The morning air of the pasture turned steadily cooler. day by day, the bright golden leaves of the birches turned more spotted as the first winds of winter slipped between the withered branches and across the highlands toward the southeast. stopping in the center of the pasture, i could hear the winds clearly. no turning back, they pronounced. the brief autumn was gone.
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And if there are no cars or planes, and if no one’s uncle john is out in the wood lot west of town banging away at a quail or pheasant; if the only sound is the slow beat of your own heart, you can hear another sound, and that is the sound of life winding down to its cyclic close, waiting for the first winter snow to perform last rites.
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