Page:Poems, Emerson, 1847.djvu/183

Rh And, seeing his eye glare,

They drop their few pale flowers,

Gathered with hope to please,

Along the mountain towers,—

Lose courage, and despair.

He will never be gainsaid,—

Pitiless, will not be stayed;

His hot tyranny

Burns up every other tie.

Therefore comes an hour from Jove

Which his ruthless will defies,

And the dogs of Fate unties.

Shiver the palaces of glass;

Shrivel the rainbow-colored walls,

Where in bright Art each god and sibyl dwelt,

Secure as in the zodiac's belt;

And the galleries and halls,

Wherein every siren sung,

Like a meteor pass.

For this fortune wanted root

In the core of God's abysm,—

Was a weed of self and schism;