Passing the hues and objects of the world,
The fields of art and learning, pleasure, sense,
To glean eidólons.

Put in thy chants, said he,

No more the puzzling hour nor day, nor segments, parts, put in— Put first before the rest, as light for all and entrance-song of all, That of eidolons.

Ever the dim beginning,

Ever the growth, the rounding of the circle,

Ever the summit and the merge at last, (to surely start again,) Eidolons! Eidolons!

Ever the mutable,

Ever materials changing, crumbling, re-cohering,
Ever the ateliers, the factories divine,

Issuing eidolons.

Lo, I or you,

Or woman, man, or state, known or unknown,
We seeming solid wealth, strength, beauty build,
But really build eidolons.

The ostent evanescent,

The substance of an artist's mood or savan's studies long,

Or warrior's, martyr's, hero's toils,

To fashion his eidólon.

Of every human life,

(The units gather'd, posted, not a thought, emotion, deed, left out,)

The whole or large or small summ'd, added up,

In its eidólon.

The old, old urge,

Based on the ancient pinnacles, lo, newer, higher pinnacles,
From science and the modern still impell'd,

The old, old urge eidólons.

The present now and here,

America's busy, teeming, intricate whirl,

Of aggregate and segregate for only thence releasing,
To-day's eidólons.

These with the past,

Of vanished lands, of all the reigns of kings across the sea,
Old conquerors, old campaigns, old sailors voyages,

Joining eidólons.

Densities, growth, façades,

Strata of mountains, soils, rocks, giant trees,

Far-born, far-dying, living long, to leave,

Eidolons everlasting.

Exalté, rapt, ecstatic,

The visible but their womb of birth,

Of orbic tendencies to shape and shape and shape,
The mighty earth-eidólon.

All space, all time,

(The stars, the terrible perturbations of the suns,

Swelling, collapsing, ending, serving their longer, shorter use,) Fill'd with eidolons.

The noiseless myriads,

The infinite oceans where the rivers empty,
The separate countless free identities, like eyesight,
The true realities, eidolons.

Not this the world,

Nor these the universes, they the universes,
Purport and end, ever the permanent life of life,
Eidolons, eidólons.

Beyond thy lectures, learn'd professor,

Beyond thy telescope or spectroscope, observer keen, beyond all mathematics,

Beyond the doctor's surgery, anatomy, beyond the chemist with

his chemistry,

The entities of entities, eidólons.

Unfix'd yet fix'd

Ever shall be, ever have been and are,
Sweeping the present to the infinite future

Eidolons, eidólons, eidolons.

The prophet and the bard,

Shall yet maintain themselves, in higher stages yet,

Shall meditate to the Modern, to Democracy, interpret yet to them, God and eidolons.

And thee, my soul,

Joys, ceaseless exercises, exaltations,

Thy yearning amply fed at last, prepared to meet
Thy mates, eidólons.

Thy body permanent,

The body lurking there within the body,

The only purport of the form thou art, the real I myself,
An image, an eidólon.

Thy very songs not in thy songs,

No special strains to sing, none for itself,

But from the whole resulting, rising at last and floating,
A round full-orb'd eidólon.

PATROLING BARNEGAT.

Wild, wild the storm, and the sea high running,

Steady the roar of the gale, with incessant undertone muttering, Shouts of demoniac laughter fitfully piercing and pealing,

Waves, air, midnight, their savagest trinity lashing,

Out in the shadows their milk-white combs careering,
On beachy slush and sand spirts of snow fierce slanting,
Where through the murk the easterly death-wind breasting,
Through cutting swirl and spray watchful and firm advancing,
(That in the distance! is that a wreck? is the red signal flaring?)
Slush and sand of the beach tireless till daylight wending,
Steadily, slowly, through hoarse roar never remitting,

A group of dim, weird forms, struggling, the night confronting,
That savage trinity warily watching.

THE OX-TAMER.

In a far-away northern country in the placid pastoral region, Lives my farmer friend, the theme of my recitative, a famous tamer of oxen,

There they bring him the three-year-olds and the four-year-olds to break them,

He will take the wildest steer in the world and break him and

tame them,

He will go fearless without any whip where the young bullock chafes up and down the yard,

The bullock's head tosses restless, high in the air with raging

eyes,

Yet see you! how soon his rage subsides-how soon this tamer

tames him;

See you! on the farms hereabout a hundred oxen young and old, and he is the man who has tamed them,

They all know him, all are affectionate to him;

See you! some are such beautiful animals, so lofty looking; some are buff-color'd, some mottled, one has a white line running along his back, some are brindled,

Some have wide flaring horns (a good sign)-see you! the bright hides,

See, the two with stars on their foreheads-see, the round bodies and broad backs,

How straight and square they stand on their legs-what fine sagacious eyes!

How they watch their tamer-they wish him near them--how

they turn to look after him!

What yearning expression! how uneasy they are when he moves away from them;

Now I marvel what it can be he appears to them, (books, politics, poems, depart-all else departs.)

I confess I envy only his fascination - my silent, illiterate

friend,

Whom a hundred oxen love there in his life on farms,

In the northern country far, in the placid pastoral region.