Page:Poems, Household Edition, Emerson, 1904.djvu/206

170 Hither rolls the storm of heat;

I feel its finer billows beat

Like a sea which me infolds;

Heat with viewless fingers moulds,

Swells, and mellows, and matures,

Paints, and flavors, and allures,

Bird and brier inly warms,

Still enriches and transforms,

Gives the reed and lily length,

Adds to oak and oxen strength,

Transforming what it doth infold,

Life out of death, new out of old,

Painting fawns' and leopards' fells,

Seethes the gulf-encrimsoning shells,

Fires gardens with a joyful blaze

Of tulips, in the morning's rays.

The dead log touched bursts into leaf,

The wheat-blade whispers of the sheaf.

What god is this imperial Heat,

Earth's prime secret, sculpture's seat?

Doth it bear hidden in its heart

Water-line patterns of all art?

Is it Dædalus? is it Love?

Or walks in mask almighty Jove,

And drops from Power's redundant horn

All seeds of beauty to be born?

Where shall we keep the holiday,

And duly greet the entering May?