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- The World-Soul
- Ralph Waldo Emerson - 1803-1882
- Thanks to the morning light,
- Thanks to the foaming sea,
- To the uplands of New Hampshire,
- To the green-haired forest free;
- Thanks to each man of courage,
- To the maids of holy mind,
- To the boy with his games undaunted
- Who never looks behind.
- Cities of proud hotels,
- Houses of rich and great,
- Vice nestles in your chambers,
- Beneath your roofs of slate.
- 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;
- And ’t is far in the deeps of history,
- The voice that speaketh clear.
- Trade and the streets ensnare us,
- Our bodies are weak and worn;
- We plot and corrupt each other,
- And we despoil the unborn.
- Yet there in the parlor sits
- Some figure of noble guise,—
- Our angel, in a stranger’s form,
- Or woman’s pleading eyes;
- Or only a flashing sunbeam
- In at the window-pane;
- Or Music pours on mortals
- 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
- 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 taunt 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.
- 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
- With railways ironed o’er?—
- They are but sailing foam-bells
- Along Thought’s causing stream,
- And take their shape and sun-color
- From him that sends the dream.
- 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,—
- 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.
- 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,
- 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.
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