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Yet there in the parlour sits
The inevitable morning
Finds them who in cellars be;
And be sure the all-loving Nature
Yon ridge of purple landscape,
Yon sky between the walls,
In scanty intervals.
Alas, the sprite that haunts us
It whispers of the glorious gods,
If but one hero knew it,
The world would blush in flame;
Still, still the secret presses,
Within, without the idle earth
And what if trade sow cities
And thatch with towns the prairie broad
They are but sailing foam-bells
Along Thought's causing stream,
And take their shape and sun-colour
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 oifts—
He is no churl or trifler,
The seeds of land and sea
Are the atoms of his body bright,
And his behest obey.
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,
He will from wrecks and sediment
He forbids to despair,
His cheeks mantle with mirth,
And the unimagined good of men
Spring still makes spring in the mind
When sixty years are told;
Love wakes anew this throbbing heart,
And we are never old.
Over the winter glaciers
And through the wild-piled snowdrift
MINOTT, Lee, Willard, Hosmer, Meriam, Flint,
Where are those men? Asleep beneath their grounds,
They added ridge to valley, brook to pond,
We must have clay, lime, gravel, granite-ledge,
The land is well,-lies fairly to the south.
'Tis good, when you have crossed the sea and back,
Him to his land, a lump of mould the more.
To them and to their heirs
Who shall succeed
Here is the land,
Fled like the flood's foam;
They called me theirs,
Who so controlled me;
Yet every one
Wished to stay, and is gone.
How am I theirs,
If they cannot hold me,
When I heard the Earth-song,
Like lust in the chill of the grave.
FOR this present, hard
Is the fortune of the bard
Born out of time;
All his accomplishment
From Nature's utmost treasure spent
When the pine tosses its cones
With none has he to do,
And none seek him,
Nor men below,
Nor spirits dim.
Sure some good his eye enchants;
In the wood he travels, glad
What he knows nobody wants,—