Henry David Thoreau (1817-1862)

We know his Walden, even his essay “Civil Disobedience.” But do we know his poetry? Probably not, though some of it is pretty good, such as this short number:

Epitaph on the World

Here lies the body of this world,
Whose soul alas to hell is hurled.
This golden youth long since was past,
Its silver manhood went as fast,
An iron age drew on at last;
’Tis vain its character to tell,
The several fates which it befell,
What year it died, when ’twill arise,
We only know that here it lies.