64 72 Within, without, the idle earth And what if trade sow cities Like shells along the shore, And thatch with towns the prairie broad They are but sailing foambells 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- He is no churl or trifler, The seeds of land and sea Are the atoms of his body bright, 80 88 The World-Soul He serveth the servant, He kills the cripple and the sick, 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 Spring still makes spring in the mind, Love wakes anew this throbbing heart, 96 104 1847. And we are never old. Over the winter glaciers, I see the summer glow, And through the wild-piled snowdrift Ralph Waldo Emerson. I 12 TO THE HUMBLEBEE BURLY, dozing humblebee! Where thou art is clime for me; 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, ΙΟ 19 To the Humblebee Tints the human countenance Hot midsummer's petted crone, Long days, and solid banks of flowers; 31 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, 1839. Seeing only what is fair, Sipping only what is sweet, 63 Ralph Waldo Emerson. THE TITMOUSE You shall not be overbold When you deal with arctic cold, East, west, north, south, are his domain. Miles off, three dangerous miles, is home; The frost-king ties my fumbling feet, Sings in my ears, my hands are stones, Tugs at the heart-strings, numbs the sense, |