“So now I come to what is chiefest here: Destroy this temple and I will re-build it In three days. Now you know what preachers say: This means the resurrection--not at all! These were the greatest words that Jesus said. And here his genius seized its fullest power, Here was it that he hid Jerusalem Under his hands as if it were a toy, And tossed the world up as it were a ball. Why, what are temples, cities, cultures, ages Of beauty, glory, but the work of genius? What earth and stone and flesh but plastic stuff Responsive to the touch of prophet hands? What Winston Prairie, what America And all this turbulence of bobbing heads In fields and markets, temples, halls across This continent of sovereign states but puppets Which may be changed in flesh, in deepest spirit, Made more erect, heroic, God-like, wise By genius’ hands, not revolutionists’, Nor shepherds’. So destroy America, But not by picks and axes, let it be As in the movies where a lovelier face Steals in and blots with brighter light a face, Which must fade out to let the lovelier face Complete the story. Now in a moment’s silence Let’s pray for Cato Braden.” THE DESPLAINES FOREST The sun has sunk below the level plain, And yet above the forest’s leafy gloom The glory of the evening lightens still. Smooth as a mirror is the river’s face With Heaven’s light, and all its radiant clouds And shadows which against the river’s shore Already are as night. From some retreat Obscure and lonely, evening’s saddest bird Whistles, and beyond the water comes The musical reply, and silence reigns-- Save for the noisy chorus of the frogs, And undistinguished sounds of faint portent That night has come. There is a rustic bridge Which spans the stream, from which we look below At Heaven above, till revery reclaims The mind from hurried thought and merges it Into the universal mind which broods O’er such a scene. Strange quietude o’erspreads The restless flame of being, and the soul Beholds its source and destiny and feels Not sorrowful to sink into the breast Of that large life whereof it is a part. What are we? But the question is not solved Here in the presence of intensest thought, Where nature stills the clamor of the world, And leaves us in communion with ourselves. Hence to the strivings of the clear-eyed day What take we that shall mitigate the pangs That each soul is alone, and that all friends Gentle and wise and good can never soothe The ache of that sub-consciousness which is Something unfathomed and unmedicined? Yet this it is which keeps us in the path Of some ambition cherished or pursued; The still, small voice that is not quieted By disregard, but ever speaks to us Its mandates while we wake or sleep, and asks