Where through his ritual pomp still moves
The Sun in robe pontifical,
Whose only creed is catholic light,
Whose benediction is for all;
I enter with glad face uplift,
Asperged on brow and brain and heart;
I am confessed, absolved, illumed,
Receive my blessing and depart.
THE WINNOWER TO THE WINDS
(From Joachim de Bellay)
To yon light troop, who fly
On wing that hurries by
The wide world over,
And with soft sibilance
Bid every shadow dance
Of the glad cover.
These violets I consign
Lilies and sops-in-wine
Roses, all yours,
These roses vermeil-tinctured
Their graces new-uncinctured
And gilly-flowers.
So with your gentle breath
Blow on the plain beneath
Through my grange blow,
What time I swink and strain,
Winnowing my golden grain
In noontide’s glow.
EMERSON
Memnon the Yankee! bare to every star,
But silent till one vibrant shaft of light
Strikes; then a voice thrilling, oracular,
And clear harmonies through the infinite.