Page:Poems, Emerson, 1847.djvu/44

32 The inevitable morning

Finds them who in cellars be;

And be sure the all-loving Nature

Will smile in a factory.

Yon ridge of purple landscape,

Yon sky between the walls,

Hold all the hidden wonders,

In scanty intervals.

Alas! the Sprite that haunts us

Deceives our rash desire;

It whispers of the glorious gods,

And leaves us in the mire.

We cannot learn the cipher

That's writ upon our cell;

Stars help us by a mystery

Which we could never spell.

If but one hero knew it,

The world would blush in flame;

The sage, till he hit the secret,

Would hang his head for shame.