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¹«¾ùÀÌ ¼º°øÀΰ¡? This Is To Have Succeeded
ÄáÄÚ¿Àµå ¼Û°¡ Sung At The Completion Of The Concord Monument
¿ìÈ Fable ·Îµµ¶ó ²É The Rhodora
ºê¶ó¸¶ Brahma
°¢ÀÚ¿Í ¸ðµÎ Each And All
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À̰ÍÀÌ ÁøÁ¤ÇÑ ¼º°øÀÌ´Ù.
This Is To Have Succeeded
- Ralph Waldo Emerson
To laugh often and much
To win the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children;
To earn the appreciation of honest critics
And endure the betrayal of false friends;
To appreciate beauty, to find the best in others;
To leave the world a bit better, whether by a healthy child, a garden
patch or a redeemed social condition;
To know that even one life has breathed easier
because you have lived.
This is to have succeeded.
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Sung At The Completion Of The Concord Monument
- Ralph Waldo Emerson
By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
Their flag to April's breeze unfurled,
Here once the embattled farmers stood,
And fired the shot heard round the world.
The foe long since in silence slept;
Alike the conqueror sleeps;
And Time the ruined bridge has swept
Down the dark stream that seaward creeps.
On this green bank, by this soft stream,
We set today a votive stone;
That memory may their deed redeem,
When, like our sires, our sons are gone.
Spirit that made these heroes dare
To die, or leave their children free,
Bid Time and Nature gently spare
The shaft we raise to them and thee.
¿ìÈ
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»ê°ú ´Ù¶÷Áã°¡ ½Ãºñ¸¦ ¹ú¿´´Ù.
"ÀÌ ´«²Å¸¸ÇÑ °Ç¹æÁø ³ð¾Æ" ÇÏ°í »êÀÌ ºÎ¸£ÀÚ,
´Ù¶÷Á㠳༮ÀÌ ´ë´äÇÑ´Ù. "³Ê´Â Å©±â¾ß ¹«Ã´ Å©´Ù.
±×·¯³ª »ï¶ó ¸¸»ó°ú ÃáÇÏ Ãßµ¿ÀÌ Çѵ¥ ÇÕÃÄÁ®¾ß 1³âÀÌµÇ°í ¼¼°è°¡ µÇ´Â °ÍÀÌ´Ù.
±×·¯´Ï ³»°¡ Â÷ÁöÇÏ´Â À§Ä¡¸¦ ºÎ²ô·´°Ô »ý°¢ ¾Ê´Â´Ù. ³»°¡ ³Ê¸¸Å Å©Áö ¸øÇÏÁö¸¸,
³×°¡ ³ª¸¸Å ÀÛÁöµµ ¸øÇϰí, ³» ¹Ýµµ ³¯½ØÁö ¸øÇÏÁö ¾Ê³Ä.
¹°·Ð ³×°¡ ³ª¿¡°Ô
¸Å¿ì ¾Æ¸§´Ù¿î ±æÀÌ µÇ¾î ÁÖ±ä ÇÏÁö¸¸.
Àç´ÉÀº °¢ÀÚ ´Ù¸£´Ù.¸¸¹°Àº Àß, Çö¸íÈ÷ ³õ¿©ÀÖ´Ù.
³»°¡ ½£À» Áû¾îÁú ¼ø ¾øÁö¸¸, ³Ê´Â ¹ãÀ» ±úÁö´Â ¸øÇÑ´Ù."
Fable
- Ralph Waldo Emerson
The mountain and the squirrel
Had a quarrel,
And the former called the latter, "little prig":
Bun replied,
You are doubtless very big,
But all sorts of things and weather
Must be taken in together
To make up a year,
And a sphere.
And I think it no disgrace
To occupy my place.
If I'm not so large as you,
You are not so small as I,
And not half so spry:
I'll not deny you make
A very pretty squirrel track;
Talents differ; all is well and wisely put;
If I cannot carry forests on my back,
Neither can you crack a nut.
·Îµµ¶ó²É
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¿À¿ù,ÇØÇ³ÀÌ ÀÌ º®Áö¿¡ ºÒ¾î µé ¶§ ³ª´Â °« ÇÉ ·Îµµ¶ó²ÉÀ» ½£¼Ó¿¡¼ º¸¾Ò´Ù.
±× ÀÙ ¾ø´Â ²ÉÀÌ ½ÀÁöÀÇ ÇÑ ±¸¼®¿¡ ÇǾî
Ȳ¾ß¿Í ¿Ï¸¸ÇÑ °¹°¿¡ ±â»ÝÀ» ÁÖ°í,
¿õµ¢ÀÌ¿¡ ¶³¾îÁø ÀÚÁÞºû ²ÉÀÙÀº ±× °í¿î ºû±ò·Î ½ÃÄ¿¸Õ ¹°À» ȯÇÏ°Ô Çß¾ú´Ù.
¿©±â¿¡ È«ÀÛÀÌ ±êÀ» ½ÄÈ÷·¯ ¿Í¼ »õÀÇ Â÷¸²À» ¹«»öÄÉÇÏ´Â ±× ²É¿¡ Ã߯ď¦ ´øÁúÁöµµ.
·Îµµ¶ó¿©, ¸¸ÀÏ »ç¶÷µéÀÌ ³Ê¿¡°Ô ¹°¾î ¿Ö ÀÌ·± ¾Æ¸§´Ù¿òÀ» ÀÌ ¶¥°ú ÀÌ Çϴÿ¡ ÇêµÇÀÌ ¹ö¸®´À³Ä Çϰŵç,
±×µé¿¡°Ô ÀÏ·¯¶ó, ¸¸ÀÏ ´«ÀÌ º¸¶ó°í ¸¸µé¾î Áø °ÍÀ̶ó¸é, ¾Æ¸§´Ù¿ò¿¡´Â ±× ÀÚüÀÇ Á¸Àç ÀÌÀ¯°¡ ÀÖ´Ù°í.
¿Ö ³Ê´Â ¿©±â¿¡ ³ªÅ¸³µ´À³Ä? Àå¹ÌÀÇ Àû¼ö¿© ³ª´Â ¹°À» »ý°¢À» ÇØ º¸Áöµµ ¾Ê¾Ò°í, ¾ËÁöµµ ¸øÇß´Ù.
±×·¯³ª ³ªÀÇ ´Ü¼øÇÑ ¹«Áö·Î ÃßÃøÄÁ´ë, ³ª¸¦ »ý±â°Ô ÇÑ ¹Ù·Î ±× 'Èû'ÀÌ ³Ê¸¦ »ý±â°Ô ÇßÀ¸¸®¶ó.
The Rhodora
- Ralph Waldo Emerson
On Being Asked, Whence Is The Flower?
In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes,
I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods,
Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook,
To please the desert and the sluggish brook.
The purple petals fallen in the pool
Made the black water with their beauty gay;
Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool,
And court the flower that cheapens his array.
Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why
This charm is wasted on the earth and sky,
Tell them, dear, that, if eyes were made for seeing,
Then beauty is its own excuse for Being;
Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose!
I never thought to ask; I never knew;
But in my simple ignorance suppose
The self-same power that brought me there, brought you.
ºê¶ó¸¶(Ûïô¸)
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ºÓÀº ÇÇ¿¡ Á¥Àº »ìÀÎÀÚ°¡ ÀÚ½ÅÀÌ »ìÀÎÀÚÀÓÀ» »ý°¢Çϰųª,
ÇÇ»ìÀÚ°¡ ÀÚ½ÅÀÌ ÇÇ»ìÀÚÀÓÀ» »ý°¢ÇÑ´Ù¸é,
³ª ºê¶ó¸¸ÀÌ ¸¸µé°í, Áö³ª´Ù´Ï°í, ´Ù½Ã µÇµ¹¸®´Â ºÒ°¡»çÀÇ ÇÑ ±æÀ» ±×µéÀº Àß ¾ËÁö ¸øÇÏ´Â °ÍÀ̶ó.
¸Ö°Å³ª ÀØÇôÁø °Íµµ ³»°Ô´Â °¡±îÀÌ ÀÖÀ¸´Ï
ºû°ú ±×¸²ÀÚ°¡ ±×·± °Í °°À½À̶ó.
»ç¶óÁø ½Åµéµµ ³»°Ô´Â º¸ÀÌ°í ¸í¿¹¿Í ¼öÄ¡µµ ³»°Ô´Â ÇϳªÀ̴϶ó.
³»°Ô¼ ¶°³ª´Â ÀÚ´Â À߸ø ¾Æ´Â °ÍÀÌ´Ï ¸Ö¸® ³¯¾Æ°¡ µµ¸ÁÄ£´Ù ÇÒÁö¶óµµ
±× ³¯°³ ÀÚü°¡ ³ªÀ̱⠶§¹®À̴϶ó. ³ª´Â ÀÇȤÀÌ¸ç ¹¯´Â ÀÚÀÌ´Ï ºê¶ó¸¸ÀÌ ºÎ¸£´Â ³ë·¡À̴϶ó.
°ÇÑ ½Åµéµµ ³ªÀÇ Ã³¼Ò¸¦ ±×¸®¿öÇÏ°í ¼º½º·¯¿î Àϰö Á¸Àڵ鵵 ÇêµÇÀÌ µ¿°æÇÏ´À´Ï¶ó.
±×·¯³ª ¼±ÇÑ °ÍÀ» »ç¶ûÇÏ´Â °â¼ÕÇÑ ÀÚ¿©, ³ª¸¦ ã°í °æ¿ÜÇ϶ó.
BRAHMA
- Ralph Waldo Emerson
If the red slayer think he slays,
Or if the slain think he is slain,
They know not well the subtle ways
I keep, and pass, and turn again.
Far or forgot to me is near;
Shadow and sunlight are the same;
The vanished gods to me appear;
And one to me are shame and fame.
They reckon ill who leave me out;
When me they fly, I am the wings;
I am the doubter and the doubt,
And I the hymn the Brahmin sings.
The strong gods pine for my abode,
And pine in vain the sacred Seven;
But thou, meek lover of the good!
Find me, and turn thy back on heaven.
Each And All
- Ralph Waldo Emerson
LITTLE thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown
Of thee from the hill-top looking down;
The heifer that lows in the upland farm,
Far-heard, lows not thine ear to charm;
The sexton, tolling his bell at noon,
Deems not that great Napoleon
Stops his horse, and lists with delight,
Whilst his files sweep round yon Alpine height;
Nor knowest thou what argument
Thy life to thy neighbor's creed has lent.
All are needed by each one;
Nothing is fair or good alone.
I thought the sparrow's note from heaven,
Singing at dawn on the alder bough;
I brought him home, in his nest, at even;
He sings the song, but it cheers not now,
For I did not bring home the river and sky;--
He sang to my ear,--they sang to my eye.
The delicate shells lay on the shore;
The bubbles of the latest wave
Fresh. pearls to their enamel gave,
And the bellowing of the savage sea
Greeted their safe escape to me.
I wiped away the weeds and foam,
I fetched my sea-born treasures home;
But the poor, unsightly, noisome things
Had left their beauty on the shore
With the sun and the sand and the wild uproar.
The lover watched his graceful maid,
As'mid the virgin train she strayed,
Nor knew her beauty's best attire
Was woven still by the snow-whitsaid, 'Ie choir.
At last she came to his hermitage,
Like the bird from the woodlands to the cage;--
The gay enchantment was undone,
A gentle wife, but fairy none.
Then I said,'I covet truth;
Beauty is unripe childhood's cheat;
I leave it behind with the games of youth:'--
As I spoke, beneath my feet
The ground-pine curled its pretty wreath,
Running over the club-moss burrs.
I inhaled the violet's breath;
Around me stood the oaks and firs;
Pine-cones and acorns lay on the ground;
Over me soared the eternal sky,
Full of light and of deity;
Again I saw, again I heard,
The rolling river, the morning bird;--
Beauty through my senses stole;
I yielded myself to the perfect whole
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