Here is our worth. We cannot rear the towers Of other times, nor bid our deeds remain Where lesser generations dream in vain, Nor sing their songs, nor crown us with their flowers. The kingdoms and the glories and the powers Have been; yet it may be the slow years gain A thought more sorrow for a brother's pain, A little joy in other joy than ours. We in whose sight the world is newly known, Shall we match works with Babylon, or wars With Rome, or arts with Athens? Which of them Will praise our pride? This only is our own— This dead tree blossoming a thousand stars, And every one a Star of Bethlehem. |