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 me 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. 

This poem is in the public domain. Published in Poem-a-Day on April 21, 2024, by the Academy of American Poets.