Page:Poems, Household Edition, Emerson, 1904.djvu/53

Rh 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.

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.