It cannot conquer folly, — Time-and-space-conquering steam, And the light-outspeeding telegraph Bears nothing on its beam. The politics are base; The letters do not cheer; Yet there in the parlor sits Its beautiful disdain.' 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 Alas! the Sprite that haunts us 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. 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. 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 For Destiny never swerves Nor yields to men the helm ; He 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 nor trifler, And his viceroy is none,— Of Genius sire and son. He serveth the servant, The brave he loves amain; He kills the cripple and the sick, And thrust the weak aside; To him who scorns their charities 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 Is yeaning at the birth. 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 I see the summer glow, And through the wild-piled snow-drift The warm rosebuds below. THE SPHINX THE Sphinx is drowsy, Her wings are furled : Her ear is heavy, She broods on the world. "Who'll tell me my secret, The ages have kept? I awaited the seer While they slumbered and slept: "The fate of the man-child, The meaning of man; Out of sleeping a waking, Out of waking a sleep; "Erect as a sunbeam, In beautiful motion The thrush plies his wings; |