Too much Ralph Waldo Emerson can be a good thing. Last night I was trying to finish his "Nature" (1836) essay, but wanted to turn in for the night instead. Emerson is not a difficult writer- his writing is colorful and imagerial, though at the cost of consistency, which he openly spurns and disregards- but he grew redundant fast. Bored, though not beyond my wits I hope, I wrote a poem as an intellectual compromise between monotony and sleep.

Sonnet CXXXI

The light, the shine, the residue of God
Peeks out at me as I'm returning to
The dorm. I have a lot of work to do,
But I look up, and almost see Him nod
Me on my way. I want to touch Him, like
The shiny dimes in public fountains that
Are tempting when my wallet's feeling flat,
But lo and, halfway on my homeward hike,
His hand is messing up my hair, like rain.
The sky is covered, but I follow whim
And linger, so to spend some time with Him.
Though coming out to walk must be a pain,
His seeing stars and moon are gonna try
Since God (I know Him) isn't very shy.

Beauty in Nature is elusive when we hunt it out, saith Emerson, but I'm usually able to experience it just as well on my planned excursions and outings. Hence the sonnet, with all of the inspiration and none of the pantheism.