FATEBy Ralph Waldo EmersonDEEP in the man sits fast his fateTo mould his fortunes, mean or great:Unknown to Cromwell as to meWas Cromwell’s measure or degree;Unknown to him as to his horse,If he than his groom be better or worse.

He works, plots, fights, in rude affairs,With squires, lords, kings, his craft compares,Till late he learned, through doubt and fear,Broad England harbored not his peer:Obeying time, the last to ownThe Genius from its cloudy throne.

For the prevision is alliedUnto the thing so signified;Or say, the foresight that awaitsIs the same Genius that creates.

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