Page:Poems, Emerson, 1847.djvu/114

102 The World-soul knows his own affair,

Forelooking, when he would prepare

For the next ages, men of mould

Well embodied, well ensouled,

He cools the present's fiery glow,

Sets the life-pulse strong but slow:

Bitter winds and fasts austere

His quarantines and grottos, where

He slowly cures decrepit flesh,

And brings it infantile and fresh.

These exercises are the toys

And games with which he breathes his boys:

They bide their time, and well can prove,

If need were, their line from Jove;

Of the same stuff, and so allayed,

As that whereof the sun is made,

And of that fibre, quick and strong,

Whose throbs are love, whose thrills are song.

Now in sordid weeds they sleep,

Their secret now in dulness keep;