by Ralph Waldo Emerson

    Mine are the night and morning，

    The pits of air， the gulf¹ of space，

    The sportive sun， the gibbous moon，

    The innumerable days.

    I hid in the solar glory，

    I am dumb in the pealing² song，

    I rest on the pitch of the torrent³，

    In slumber⁴ I am strong.

    No numbers have counted my tallies⁵，

    No tribes my house can fill，

    I sit by the shining Fount of Life，

    And pour the deluge⁶ still；

    And ever by delicate powers

    Gathering⁷ along the centuries

    From race on race the rarest flowers，

    My wreath shall nothing miss.

    And many a thousand summers

    My apples ripened⁹ well，

    And light from meliorating stars

    With firmer glory fell.

    I wrote the past in characters

    Of rock and fire the scroll¹⁰，

    The building in the coral sea，

    The planting of the coal.

    And thefts from satellites and rings

    And broken stars I drew，

    And out of spent and aged¹¹ things

    I formed the world anew；

    What time the gods kept carnival¹²，

    Tricked out in star and flower，

    And in cramp¹³ elf and saurian forms

    They swathed their too much power.

    Time and Thought were my surveyors，

    They laid their courses well，

    They boiled the sea， and baked the layers

    Or granite¹⁴， marl， and shell.

    But he， the man-child glorious，——

    Where tarries he the while？

    The rainbow shines his harbinger，

    The sunset gleams his smile.

    My boreal lights leap upward，

    Forthright¹⁵ my planets roll，

    And still the man-child is not born，

    The summit of the whole.

    Must time and tide forever run？

    Will never my winds go sleep in the west？

    Will never my wheels which whirl the sun

    And satellites have rest？

    Too much of donning and doffing¹⁶，

    Too slow the rainbow fades，

    I weary of my robe of snow，

    My leaves and my cascades¹⁷；

    I tire of globes and races，

    Too long the game is played；

    What without him is summer's pomp，

    Or winter's frozen shade？

    I travail¹⁸ in pain for him，

    My creatures travail and wait；

    His couriers come by squadrons，

    He comes not to the gate.

    Twice I have moulded an image，

    And thrice outstretched my hand，

    Made one of day， and one of night，

    And one of the salt sea-sand.

    One in a Judaean manger，

    And one by Avon stream，

    One over against the mouths of Nile，

    And one in the Academe.

    I moulded kings and saviours¹⁹，

    And bards²⁰ o'er kings to rule；——

    But fell the starry²¹ influence short，

    The cup was never full.

    Yet whirl the glowing wheels once more，

    And mix the bowl again；

    Seethe²²， fate！ the ancient elements，

    Heat， cold， wet， dry， and peace， and pain.

    Let war and trade and creeds²³ and song

    Blend， ripen⁸ race on race，

    The sunburnt world a man shall breed

    Of all the zones， and countless²⁴ days.

    No ray is dimmed， no atom worn，

    My oldest force is good as new，

    And the fresh rose on yonder thorn

    Gives back the bending heavens in dew.

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