Shapes of Clay

"'Let there be Liberty!' God said, and, lo!

The red skies all were luminous. The glow

Struck first Columbia's kindling mountain peaks

One hundred and eleven years ago!"

So sang a patriot whom once I saw

Descending Bunker's holy hill. With awe

I noted that he shone with sacred light,

Like Moses with the tables of the Law.

One hundred and eleven years? O small

And paltry period compared with all

The tide of centuries that flowed and ebbed

To etch Yosemite's divided wall!

Ah, Liberty, they sing you always young

Whose harps are in your adoration strung

(Each swears you are his countrywoman, too,

And speak no language but his mother tongue).

And truly, lass, although with shout and horn

Man has all-hailed you from creation's morn,

I cannot think you old—I think, indeed,

You are by twenty centuries unborn.

1886.