The Park by Ralph Waldo Emerson

    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 eyeballs 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,
    Leads all souls to the Good.