The Lethe of nature Can't trance him again, "Profounder, profounder, The heavens that now draw him "Pride ruined the angels, Their shame them restores; Who is noble and free?- Than to love me. "Eterne alternation Now follows, now flies; 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; And each answer is a lie. Uprose the merry Sphinx, And crouched no more in stone; Through a thousand voices THE VISIT ASKEST, "How long thou shalt stay?" Devastator of the day! Know, each substance, and relation, Thorough nature's operation, Nature poureth into nature Through the channels of that feature. 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, To the boy with his games undaunted, 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 The politics are base; The letters do not cheer; And 'tis far in the deeps of history, Yet there in the parlor sits 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, 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. But our brothers have not read it, Still, still the secret presses; The nearing clouds draw down; And what if Trade sow cities And thatch with towns the prairie broad, Along Thought's causing stream, 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,— He is no churl nor trifler, Are the atoms of his body bright, |