While she unfurled

Her handkerchief and poured the heap of coins out of her hand,

That ‘she was giving all she had—

To be used no matter how, you understand’ ...

Lest harm should come to the new world.

O doubters of democracy,

Undo your mean contemptuous art!—

More than in all that poetry has said,

More than in mound or marble, in the living live the dead.

The past has done its reproductive part.

Hear now the cry of beauty’s present needs,

Of comrades levelling a thousand creeds,

Finding futility

In conflict, selfishness, hardness of heart!

For love has many poets who can see

Ascending in the sky

Above the shadowy passes

The everlasting hills: humanity.

O doubters of the time to be,

What is this might, this mystery,

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