In this world there lives a Mighty One
Who dwells in the Middle Continent.
Though his mansion stretches ten thousand miles,
He is not content to remain in it a moment
But, saddened by the sordid press of the vulgar world,
Nimbly takes his way aloft and soars far away.
With crimson carriage flags interwoven with crystal rainbows,
He mounts upon the clouds and wanders on high;
He raises his long standard of yellow flame
Tipped with multicolored plumes of shimmering radiance,
Streaming with starry pennants
And banderoles of comets' tails.

What is so fair as the first rose-tree's blushes
All diamonded o'er with morning dew?
What is so fresh as the green streamlet's rushes,
'Mid which the silvery fish their sport pursue?
What is so patient as my dog's eye waiting
The tardy summons to be up for stroll?
What is so gracious as art's least creating
Of some rare vision that enchants the soul?
Yet are these virtues all in thee residing,
Yea each choice jewel of man's pure estate;
Freshness and beauty, patience, joy abiding —
In and around thy presence, see, they wait.

Are ye, dear Creatures, merely petted toys
Some idler moods a moment to amuse
With frolic sport? Go to! I rather choose
To call ye friends, whoe'er shall raise a voice
In scorn or laughter. Sure, it ne'er destroys
Our rare companionship to disabuse
My life of so sweet a union? I refuse,
Censor, to heed a jibe, that scarce annoys.

With vision profounder far outspoke God's saint
From the fair Umbrian highland to men's souls,
Who taught how one Spirit made and still controls
All nature's offspring in relation fond,

Listen, I lay these roses on thy path
As petals by a summer wind are blown.
Why are thy gentle eyes so full of wrath?
I, as a wind, am nameless and unknown,
And lost and hidden in a width of sky.
What know you but a rose — a song — a sigh?

And would I were a wind, that I might claim
A wind's invisible, elusive flight,
And so might lay my heart on thine like flame,
Or fly to thee upon some golden night,
All passionate and fragrant from the South,
And crowd my soul upon thy crimson mouth.

Oh tell me not of heavenly halls,
Of streets of pearl and gates of gold,
Where angel unto angel calls
'Mid splendors of the sky untold;

My homesick heart would backward turn
To find this dear, familiar earth,
To watch its sacred hearth-fires burn,
To catch its songs of joy or mirth.

I'd lean from out the heavenly choir
To hear once more the red cock crow,
What time the morning's rosy fire
O'er hill and field began to glow.

To hear the ripple of the rain,
The summer waves at ocean's brim,

Past the point and by the beach,
Oh but the waves ran merrily,
With laughter light and silver speech,
And red the sunset flushed the sea.

Two lovers wandered side by side, —
Oh but the waves ran merrily;
They watched the rushing of the tide,
And fairer than a dream was she.

About her slender waist was cast —
Oh but the waves ran merrily —
His strong right arm that held her fast,
A zone that elasped her royally.

He gazed in her bewildering face, —
Oh but the waves ran merrily:

A strong sweet tide toward the lonely shore
Sets steadfastly, till every inlet sings,
And to the waiting silence, blank before,
Its full refreshment brings.

Through the day's business passing to and fro,
Ever she grows more conscious of the charm
Upholding her wherever she may go,
Like some enfolding arm.

For this dear joy all days more fair do seem,
The night's repose more blissful and more deep,
As pillowed on the breast of this sweet dream
Softly she falls asleep.

Safe is she, lifted all earth's ills above;

Altho' the Present fruits and sums
The Past, and all the Bygone holds,
Yet ever new my soul becomes,
Not merely blossoms and unfolds.

A Mind directs the plasmic flow;
A Will inspires the plastic soul;
And ever something new I grow,
Like sequent writing on a scroll,

Where every word transmutes the last,
And by a prescient phrase is wrought,
Out of the phrases of the Past,
A new-created crescent thought.

You praise the child. I have no part
In all his vanished grace and joy;
You blame the youth; but in my heart

If I were Sleep,
With scythe to reap,
Like faded flowers,
The weary hours
Of withered day, —
If I were Sleep,
With dreams to keep
And give away, —

Hail, Master of boundless vision and heart profound!
Thou, to whose magic hand God gave the keys,
Wherewith to unlock for man life's mysteries
In its most dim recesses — yea, to sound
All passionate depths. Yet art thou, Master, crowned
Not with grave laurel only, but heart's-ease,
Kingcaps, rose, eglantine, when thou dost please
In tenderer mood to tread earth's homestead-ground.

Friend of our youth, our manhood, age — thrice hailed:
For each thou abidest with frank proferred hand
Gentlest in counsel, or for stern command,