“While this America settles in the mould of its vulgarity,
heavily thickening to empire,
and protest, only a bubble in the molten mass, pops and sighs out,
and the mass hardens, I sadly smiling remember that the flower fades to make fruit, the fruit rots to make earth.
Out of the mother; and through the spring exultances,
ripeness and decadence; and home to the mother.
You making haste haste on decay: not blameworthy;
life is good, be it stubbornly long or suddenly a mortal splendor:
meteors are not needed less than mountains:
shine, perishing republic.
But for my children, I would have them keep their distance
from the thickening center; corruption never has been compulsory.
When the cities lie at the monster’s feet there are left the mountains…”