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, Or only a flashing sunbeam The inevitable morning Finds them who in cellars be; Yon sky between the walls, Alas! the Sprite that haunts us It whispers of the glorious gods, That's writ upon our cell; Which we could never spell. If but one hero knew it, The world would blush in flame; Would hang his head for shame. Still, still the secret presses; The nearing clouds draw down; 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 For Destiny never swerves Or 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. 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 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 snowdrift, The warm rosebuds below. ALPHONSO OF CASTILE. I, ALPHONSO, live and learn, Imps, at high midsummer, blot Eyes of gods! ye must have seen, Of genius the sterility; Mighty projects countermanded; |