The World-Soul

The inevitable morning

Finds them who in cellars be,

And be sure the all-loving Nature
Will smile in a factory.

Yon ridge of purple landscape,
Yon sky between the walls,
Hold all the hidden wonders
In scanty intervals.

Alas! the sprite that haunts us
Deceives our rash desire;

It whispers of the glorious gods,
And leaves us in the mire:

We cannot learn the cipher
That's writ upon our cell;
Stars help us by a mystery
Which we could never spell.

If but one hero knew it,

The world would blush in flame,
The sage, till he hit the secret,
Would hang his head for shame.
But our brothers have not read it,
Not one has found the key;

And henceforth we are comforted,—
We are but such as they.

Still, still the secret presses,

The nearing clouds draw down,

The crimson morning flames into
The fopperies of the town.

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72

Within, without, the idle earth
Stars weave eternal rings;
The sun himself shines heartily,
And shares the joy he brings.

And what if trade sow cities

Like shells along the shore,

And thatch with towns the prairie broad
With railways ironed o'er?-

They are but sailing foambells
Along Thought's causing stream,
And take their shape and Sun-color
From him that sends the dream.

For destiny does not like

To yield to men the helm,

And shoots his thought by hidden nerves Throughout the solid realm.

The patient Dæmon sits

With roses and a shroud,

He has his way, and deals his gifts-
But ours is not allowed.

He is no churl or trifler,
And his viceroy is none,
Love-without-weakness,
Of genius sire and son;
And his will is not thwarted,-

The seeds of land and sea

Are the atoms of his body bright,
And his behest obey.

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The World-Soul

He serveth the servant,
The brave he loves amain,

He kills the cripple and the sick,
And straight begins again;

For gods delight in gods,

And thrust the weak aside;

To him who scorns their charities,

Their arms fly open wide.

When the old world is sterile,

And the ages are effete,

He will from wrecks and sediment

The fairer world complete.

He forbids to despair,

His cheeks mantle with mirth,

And the unimagined good of men
Is yeaning at the birth.

Spring still makes spring in the mind,
When sixty years are told;

Love wakes anew this throbbing heart,

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104

And we are never old.

1847.

Over the winter glaciers,

I see the summer glow,

And through the wild-piled snowdrift
The warm rose-buds below.

Ralph Waldo Emerson.

112

TO THE HUMBLEBEE

BURLY, dozing humblebee!
Where thou art is clime for me;
Let them sail for Porto Rique,
Far-off heats through seas to seek;
I will follow thee alone,

Thou animated torrid zone!
Zigzag steerer, desert cheerer,
Let me chase thy waving lines;
Keep me nearer, me thy hearer,
Singing over shrubs and vines.

Insect lover of the sun,

Joy of thy dominion!

Sailor of the atmosphere;

Swimmer through the waves of air,

Voyager of light and noon,

Epicurean of June!

Wait, I prithee, till I come

Within earshot of thy hum,—

All without is martyrdom.

When the south-wind, in May days,

With a net of shining haze

Silvers the horizon wall;

And, with softness touching all,

To the Humblebee

Tints the human countenance
With the color of romance;
And infusing subtle heats,
Turns the sod to violets,-
Thou in sunny solitudes,
Rover of the underwoods,
The green silence dost displace
With thy mellow breezy bass.

Hot midsummer's petted crone,
Sweet to me thy drowsy tone
Tells of countless sunny hours,

Long days, and solid banks of flowers;
Of gulfs of sweetness without bound,
In Indian wildernesses found;

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Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure, Firmest cheer, and bird-like pleasure. 39

Aught unsavory or unclean

Hath my insect never seen;

But violets, and bilberry bells,

Maple-sap, and daffodels,

Grass with green flag half-mast high,

Succory to match the sky,

Columbine with horn of honey,
Scented fern, and agrimony,
Clover, catchfly, adder's-tongue,
And brier-roses, dwelt among:
All beside was unknown waste,
All was picture as he passed.
Wiser far than human seer,
Yellow-breeched philosopher,