8. The Henry David Thoreau Clue

Robert Plant Conundrum -  Henry David Thoreau, who always stepped to the beat of a different drummer.

I think awhile of Love, and while I think,
     Love is to me a world,
     Sole meat and sweetest drink,
     And close connecting link
       Tween heaven and earth.

I only know it is, not how or why,
     My greatest happiness;
     However hard I try,
     Not if I were to die,
       Can I explain.

I fain would ask my friend how it can be,
     But when the time arrives,
     Then Love is more lovely
     Than anything to me,
       And so I'm dumb.

For if the truth were known, Love cannot speak,
     But only thinks and does;
     Though surely out 'twill leak
     Without the help of Greek,
       Or any tongue.

A man may love the truth and practise it,
     Beauty he may admire,
     And goodness not omit,
     As much as may befit
       To reverence.

But only when these three together meet,
     As they always incline,
     And make one soul the seat,
     And favorite retreat,
       Of loveliness;

When under kindred shape, like loves and hates
     And a kindred nature,
     Proclaim us to be mates,
     Exposed to equal fates

And each may other help, and service do,
     Drawing Love's bands more tight,
     Service he ne'er shall rue
     While one and one make two,
       And two are one;

In such case only doth man fully prove
     Fully as man can do,
     What power there is in Love
     His inmost soul to move


Two sturdy oaks I mean, which side by side,
     Withstand the winter's storm,
     And spite of wind and tide,
     Grow up the meadow's pride,
       For both are strong

Above they barely touch, but undermined
     Down to their deepest source,
     Admiring you shall find
     Their roots are intertwined

Thoreau's close friend, Ralph Waldo Emerson, wrote: The soul comes from without into the human body, as into a temporary abode, and it goes out of it anew it passes into other habitations, for the soul is immortal. --It is the secret of the world that all things subsist and do not die, but only retire a little from sight and afterwards return again. Nothing is dead; men feign themselves dead, and endure mock funerals, and there they stand looking out of the window, sound and well, in some strange new disguise.

LINK: The Eulogy of Henry David Thoreau by Ralph Waldo Emerson