Page:Poems, Emerson, 1847.djvu/143

131 THE PARK.

prosperous and beautiful

To me seem not to wear

The yoke of conscience masterful,

Which galls me everywhere.

I cannot shake off the god;

On my neck he makes his seat;

I look at my face in the glass,—

My eyes his eyeballs meet.

Enchanters! enchantresses!

Your gold makes you seem wise;

The morning mist within your grounds

More proudly rolls, more softly lies.