Of all of Nabokov's critical judgments, I still find his solitary comment on Emerson the strangest:
Who are the great American writers you most admire?
When I was young I liked Poe, and I still love Melville, whom I did not read as a boy. My feelings towards James are rather complicated. I really dislike him intensely but now and then the figure in the phrase, the turn of the epithet, the screw of an absurd adverb, cause me a kind of electric tingle, as if some current of his was also passing through my own blood. Hawthorne is a splendid writer. Emerson's poetry is delightful.
I still half-think this was more a dig at Emerson's essays than genuine praise of his poetry.
I had a poem to post here, but I'm now entirely blanking on what it was. With any luck, I'll remember later and be back.