Page:Poems, Emerson, 1847.djvu/45

Rh But our brothers have not read it,

Not one has found the key;

And henceforth we are comforted,—

We are but such as they.

Still, still the secret presses,

The nearing clouds draw down;

The crimson morning flames into

The fopperies of the town.

Within, without the idle earth,

Stars weave eternal rings;

The sun himself shines heartily,

And shares the joy he brings.

And what if Trade sow cities

Like shells along the shore,

And thatch with towns the prairie broad,

With railways ironed o'er?—

They are but sailing foam-bells

Along Thought's causing stream,

And take their shape and sun-color

From him that sends the dream.