Page:Poems, Emerson, 1847.djvu/151

Rh And recount the numbers well;

Olympian bards who sung

Divine Ideas below,

Which always find us young,

And always keep us so.

Oft, in streets or humblest places,

I detect far-wandered graces,

Which, from Eden wide astray,

In lowly homes have lost their way.

Thee gliding through the sea of form,

Like the lightning through the storm,

Somewhat not to be possessed,

Somewhat not to be caressed,

No feet so fleet could ever find,

No perfect form could ever bind.

Thou eternal fugitive,

Hovering over all that live,

Quick and skilful to inspire

Sweet, extravagant desire,

Starry space and lily-bell

Filling with thy roseate smell,