Hands silent, out of sight were plunged in toil. You woke one morning to the waters’ roar And saw these gilded turrets flash and spoil The sun-light of the spring. What have you sown Of truth or beauty in this eager soil To make your living felt, your labor known? Sometimes I see silk banners in the sky, And hear the sound of silver trumpets blown, And bells high turreted. And passing by This firmament of rolling blue great throngs Stream in an air of brilliant sun where I A century gone am of it, when my songs Are but a record of a day that died, And saw the end of desecrating wrongs. How sweet bells are borne on the evening tide High up where heaven is flushed and the moon’s sphere Looks down on temples, arches, where the wide Eternal waters thunder round the Pier! GOBINEAU TO TREE Since our talk at Christiana I have read All you referred me to concerning Lincoln: His speeches and the story of the struggle Which ended in your war, not civil really But waged between two nations--but no matter! To me whose life is closing, and whose life Was spent in struggle, much of misery, In friendship with De Tocqueville then at odds With him and his philosophy, who knew Bismarck, who saw the wars of Europe, saw Great men come up and fall, and systems change, Who probed into the Renaissance and mastered Religions and philosophies and wrote Concerning racial inequalities-- To me I say this crisis of your time And country seems remote as it might be Almost in far Australia, trivial In substance and effect, or world result. And now your letter and these documents Concerning Douglas yield but scanty gold. Perhaps I’ve reached an age where I cannot Digest new matter, or resolve its worth, Extract its bearing and significance. But since you ask me I am writing you What I’ve arrived at.