Page:Poems, Emerson, 1847.djvu/46

34 For Destiny does not like

To yield to men the helm;

And shoots his thought, by hidden nerves,

Throughout the solid realm.

The patient Dæmon sits,

With roses and a shroud;

He has his way, and deals his gifts,—

But ours is not allowed.

He is no churl nor trifler,

And his viceroy is none,—

Love-without-weakness,—

Of Genius sire and son.

And his will is not thwarted;

The seeds of land and sea

Are the atoms of his body bright,

And his behest obey.

He serveth the servant,

The brave he loves amain;

He kills the cripple and the sick,

And straight begins again.