The Lethe of nature

Can't trance him again,
Whose soul sees the perfect,
Which his eyes seek in vain.

"Profounder, profounder,
Man's spirit must dive;
To his aye-rolling orbit
No goal will arrive;

The heavens that now draw him
With sweetness untold,
Once found, for new heavens
He spurneth the old.

"Pride ruined the angels,

Their shame them restores;
And the joy that is sweetest
Lurks in stings of remorse.
Have I a lover

Who is noble and free?-
I would he were nobler

Than to love me.

"Eterne alternation

Now follows, now flies;
And under pain, pleasure,-
Under pleasure, pain lies.
Love works at the center,
Heart-heaving alway;
Forth speed the strong pulses

To the borders of day.

"Dull Sphinx, Jove keep thy five wits:

Thy sight is growing blear;

Rue, myrrh, and cummin for the Sphinx

Her muddy eyes to clear!"—

The old Sphinx bit her thick lip,—

Said, "Who taught thee me to name?

I am thy spirit, yoke-fellow,

Of thine eye I am eyebeam.

"Thou art the unanswered question;
Could'st see thy proper eye,
Always it asketh, asketh;

And each answer is a lie.
So take thy quest through nature,
It through thousand natures ply;
Ask on, thou clothed eternity;
Time is the false reply."

Uprose the merry Sphinx,

And crouched no more in stone;
She melted into purple cloud,
She silvered in the morn;
She spired into a yellow flame;
She flowered in blossoms red;
She flowed into a foaming wave:
She stood Monadoc's head.

Through a thousand voices
Spoke the universal dame:
"Who telleth one of my meanings
Is master of all I am."

THE VISIT

ASKEST, "How long thou shalt stay?" Devastator of the day!

Know, each substance, and relation,

Thorough nature's operation,
Hath its unit, bound, and metre;
And every new compound
Is some product and repeater.-
Product of the earlier found.
But the unit of the visit,
The encounter of the wise,-
Say, what other metre is it
Than the meeting of the eyes?

Nature poureth into nature

Through the channels of that feature.
Riding on the ray of sight,

Fleeter far than whirlwinds go,

Or for service, or delight,

Hearts to hearts their meaning show,

Sum their long experience,

And import intelligence.

Single look has drained the breast;

Single moment years confessed.

The duration of a glance

Is the term of convenance,

And, though thy rede be church or state, Frugal multiples of that.

Speeding Saturn cannot halt;

Linger-thou shalt rue the fault;

If Love his moment overstay,

Hatred's swift repulsions play.

THE WORLD-SOUL

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 'tis 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 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.
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 does not like

To yield to men the helm; And shoots his thought, by hidden nerves, Throughout the solid realm.

The patient Daemon 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.