Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803–1882)

LONG I follow’d happy guides,

I could never reach their sides;

Their step is forth and, ere the day

Breaks, up their leaguer and away.

Keen my sense, my heart was young,

Right goodwill my sinews strung,

But no speed of mine avails

To hunt upon their shining trails.

On and away, their hasting feet

Make the morning proud and sweet;

Flowers they strew,—I catch the scent;

Or tone of silver instrument

Leaves on the wind melodious trace;

Yet I could never see their face.

On eastern hills I see their smokes

Mix’d with mist by distant lochs.

I met many travellers,

Who the road had surely kept;

They saw not my fine revellers—

These had cross’d them while they slept.

Some had heard their fair report

In the country or the court:

Fleetest couriers alive

Never yet could once arrive,

As they went or they return’d,

At the house where these sojourn’d.

Sometimes their strong speed they slacken

Though they are not overtaken;

In sleep their jubilant troop is near—

I tuneful voices overhear,

It may be in wood or waste—

At unawares ’tis come and past.

Their near camp my spirit knows

By signs gracious as rainbows.

I thenceforward and long after

Listen for their harplike laughter,

And carry in my heart, for days,

Peace that hallows rudest ways.