Page:Poems, Emerson, 1847.djvu/122

110 He comes, but not of that race bred

Who daily climb my specular head.

Oft as morning wreathes my scarf,

Fled the last plumule of the Dark,

Pants up hither the spruce clerk

From South Cove and City Wharf.

I take him up my rugged sides,

Half-repentant, scant of breath,—

Bead-eyes my granite chaos show,

And my midsummer snow;

Open the daunting map beneath,—

All his county, sea and land,

Dwarfed to measure of his hand;

His day's ride is a furlong space,

His city tops a glimmering haze.

I plant his eyes on the sky-hoop bounding:

"See there the grim gray rounding

Of the bullet of the earth

Whereon ye sail,

Tumbling steep

In the uncontinented deep."

He looks on that, and he turns pale.