Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THESE UNITED STATES, by BENJAMIN ROBBINS CURTIS LOW



Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THESE UNITED STATES, by                    
First Line: New, for the most part: very, very new
Last Line: But make her worthy, for we love her, lord!
Subject(s): United States; America


I

New, for the most part: very, very new.
Flimsy houses, mostly turned askew.
Streets that straggle, where, not long ago,
Timber stood, then cows grazed, now papers blow.
Much too busy to be tidy, bent
On being bigger -- one big circus tent.
Somewhat slangy; not devoid of cheek;
Loving noise, and loving best to speak.
Swayed by headlines; governed by a shout; --
Nine days of wonder, then a new one's out.
Bashful in nothing; reverent in few;
New, for the most part; very, very new.
But -- beneath the newness, in behind
All the brag and splurge and jest, we find
This: Old memories of homespun days.
Candle-lit; of quiet, sabbath ways
Won from wildernesses, fervent prayer
Given in peril's proof; young feet worn bare,
Hands tough-trained, and level-looking eyes
Keen on gunsights, calm as evening skies;
Memories of battle, richly drowned
In warm life-blood, heroes-wrapped-around, --
Deep, too deep for tears, not spoken of
Save by that great love which answers love;
Memories of old songs, carried far
Over wide prairies, past peaks that are
Torches to the sunrise, past the spires,
Star-outlined, of trees; by rain-ringed fires
Gleaned, and sung again on wind-bleached foam
With brave ships for China, praising Home,
Proudly, to strange skies; most sweet, most fair
Songs, the old, old, same songs, everywhere.
Memories and going deeper -- dreams.
Dreams brought over seas, the first faint gleams;
Cherished, through storms cherished; dim and pale
But not dying dreams; still held, still hale,
Still with haughty stars defended, still,
Aloof, like eagles, brooding their bright will.

II

New, for the most part; very, very new.
Anglo-Saxon, German, Celt and Jew,
Latin, Armenian, Negro, Slav, Chinese,
Scandinavian, Hindoo, Dutch -- all these.
Foreign tongues, not light to extirpate;
Feuds, hard-dying, Old-World, out of date.
Huddled herds in cities; labor, lined,
Often, with backward looks; love, left behind.
Seed wild-sown the wind has foisted far;
Rude wave-welter of all creeds that are.
Gallant the ship; a motley crowd the crew: --
New for the most part, very, very new.
But -- beneath the newness, in behind
All the warp and tug and strain, we find
This: Old hungerings of long-dead days,
Spirit-bowed; of cruel, down-trod ways
Sore with subjugation; backs that meant
Overseers' whip-lashes, the bent,
Yoked abasement of once noble wills
Lunging at thongs between their masters' thills, --
Beasts of burden being; hungerings
Germinate in darkness, gouged by kings,
Bruised by heels of armies, overborne,
Time on time, by conquest, despot-torn;
Living, yet, miraculous alive;
Daunted not, continuing to thrive
Towards the sunlight; hungerings to be
Shackles through, and sea-glad, and got free; --
Hungerings for open spaces, wide
Of horizon, reaching out; to stride
Fields not fenced a summer's day, and be
Happy at moonrise; to get free . . . free.
Hungerings, and going deeper -- fires.
Fires brought over seas, immense desires,
Smouldering, subterranean; smothered, dim
But not dying fires; still lodged, still grim,
Still with stubborn griefs defended, still
Anchored like iron rock-deep in proud will.

III

Dreams. Fires. Fraught clouds from Europe blow,
Whose rampired walls full sulphurously glow
With battle-flare at sunrise; overseas
Breaks the beached foam of wasting panoplies,
And faintly, as in sea-shells, far away,
The cannon thunder whispers night and day.
Fires. Dreams. In factory belch fuliginous,
In caisson gloom and skyey balanced truss;
By cobweb rails to fabled Ophirs spun;
On lapping tides; down darkened streets, is done --
Gestation of a giant doomed to birth --
The forging of a new and mightier earth.
A mightier. And a better? Not by ease --
By shoulder shrugs and oiled immunities.
Not by midnight riot. Once again
They shall inherit most who live most plain.
Ay, fear it not, the little breed that knows
Nothing but wantonness, it goes -- it goes.
A bolder blood shall stride into the part;
Shall take the stage; shall wield a manlier art,
And put a shame on mimic. Even now
Is, troubled, in his sleep the Sleeper's brow.
Unrest, like mist, grows ghostlier, it seems
The Thinker questions. . . . Travail. Fire and dreams.
Dark overhead the clouds of Europe blow,
Heat-lightning-lit, dull, ominous and low.
Not yet, not yet the hour, but, tryst to keep,
A spirit moves abroad upon the deep,
And will be stirring soon. And will be sung,
Soon, to a clarion of nobler tongue
Than inks on ticker-tapes or glibly reads
From pompous records of parochial greeds
Promulgate for the People. . . . Midnight blue,
Stars of these States a-shining through,
The dawn awaited. Dreaming, peaks and spires; --
The house still locked and dreaming. Dreams -- and fires.

IV

Thou whose full time both buds and stars await; --
On the curved cup of destiny whose hold
Permits no bubble world its concave gold
Too buoyant to relinquish; at whose gate
Love takes her lantern and goes out to Hate,
Bending above the battle's bleeding mould;
Our country thou in fire and dreams enfold --
In forest freshness, her, thy consecrate.
There must be some strange beauty hid in her,
With withes uncut by sharp awakening sword;
Some precious gift not veined, some truth of power
Thou art maturing, great artificer.
Fools we, and blind; impatient of an hour;
But make her worthy, for we love her, Lord!





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