Yet there in the parlor sits Some figure of noble guise,—      Our angel, in a stranger's form, Or woman's pleading eyes; Or only a flashing sunbeam In at the window-pane; Or Music pours on mortals Its beautiful disdain. 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 taunt 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. 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. For Destiny never swerves Nor yields to men the helm; He shoots his thought, by hidden nerves, Throughout the solid realm. The patient Daemon 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; For gods delight in gods, And thrust the weak aside; To him who scorns their charities Their arms fly open wide. When the old world is sterile And the ages are effete, He will from wrecks and sediment The fairer world complete. He forbids to despair; His cheeks mantle with mirth; And the unimagined good of men Is yeaning at the birth. Spring still 

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