One whom America

Had changed.

His cheek was hardy and his mouth was frail

For sweetness, and his eyes were opening wild

As with wonder at an unseen figure carrying a grail.

Perhaps he faced, as I did in his glance,

The spirit of the living dead who, having ranged

Through long reverses, forward without fail

Carry deliverance

From privilege and disinheritance,

Until their universal soul shall prove

The only answer to the ache of love.

“America was wistful in that child,”

Said Celia afterwards—and smiled

Because all three of us were immigrants,

Each voyaging into each.

Over the city-roofs, the sun awoke

Bright in the dew

Of a marvellous morning, while she spoke

Of the sun, the dew, the wonder, in a child:

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