The Park

The prosperous and beautiful To me seem not to wear The yoke of conscience masterful, Which galls me everywhere. I cannot shake off the god; On my neck he makes his seat; I look at my face in the glass, My eyes his eye-balls meet. Enchanters! enchantresses! Your gold makes you seem wise: The morning mist within your grounds More proudly rolls, more softly lies. Yet spake yon purple mountain, Yet said yon ancient wood, That night or day, that love or crime Lead all souls to the Good.