Tender wiles, transparent guiles, Tears exhaling into smiles. A man does not reach any stature of manhood until like Moses he kills an Egyptian (_i. e._, murders some oppressive prejudice of the all-crushing Tyrant Society or Custom or Orthodoxy) and flies into the desert of his own soul, where among the rocks and sands, over which at any rate the sun rises dear each day, he slowly and with great agony settles his relation with men and manners and powers outside, and begins to look with his own eyes, and first knows the unspeakable joy of the outcast's kiss upon the hand of sweet, naked Truth. But let not the young man go to killing his Egyptian too soon: wait till you know all the Egyptians can teach you: wait till you are master of the technics of the time; then grave, and resolute, and aware of consequences, shape your course. Thought, too, is carnivorous. It lives on meat. We never have an idea whose existence has not been purchased by the death of some atom of our fleshy tissue. O little poem, thou goest from this brain chargeable with the death of tissue that perished in order that thou mightst live: nourish some soul, thou that hast been nourished on a human body. Do you think the 19th century is past? It is but two years since Boston burnt me for witchcraft. I wrote a poem which was not orthodox: that is, not like Mr. Longfellow's. All roads from childhood lead to hell, Hell is but the smoke about the monstrous fires Kindled from } Rising from } frictions of youth's self with self, Passion rubbed hard 'gainst Purpose, Heart 'gainst Brain. [1874-5] Tolerance like a Harbor lay Smooth and shining and secure, Where ships carrying every flag of faith were anchored in peace. TO THE POLITICIANS You are servants. Your thoughts are the thoughts of cooks curious to skim perquisites from every pan, your quarrels are the quarrels of scullions who fight for the privilege of cleaning the pot with most leavings in it, your committees sit upon the landings of backstairs, and your quarrels are the quarrels of kitchens. [1878-9] "The Earth?" quoth a Dandelion to my Oak, "what earth? where is any? I float, and find none!" At that moment the wind blew. "Nevertheless, it is here," quoth my oak, with pleasure in all his roots, what time the dandelion was blown out of hearing. ORNAMENT BEFORE DRESS Who doubts but Eve had a rose in her hair Ere fig leaves fettered her limbs? So Life wore poetry's perfect rose Before 'twas clothed with economic prose. Homer before Pherecydes, Caedmon before Alfred.