As thirty-ninth or thirty-first perhaps-- Just sand hills then--I never can forget it-- What should I see? Fort Dearborn dazzling bright, All newly white-washed right against that sky, And the log cabins round it, far away The rims of forests, and between a prairie With wild flowers in the grasses red and blue-- Such wild flowers and such grasses, such a sky, Such oceans of sweet air, in which were rising Straight up from Indian wigwams spires of smoke, About where now the Public Library stands On Randolph Street. And as we neared the place There was the flag, a streaming red and white Upon a pole within the Fort’s inclosure. I cried for happiness though just a child, And cry now thinking.... I must set this candle To see your pale brow better! What’s the hour? The night is passing, and I have so much To say to you before the dawn.... Well, then The first hour that I call an hour of heaven: Who was that man that built the first hotel?-- It stood across the river from the Fort-- No matter. But before that I had heard Nothing beside a fiddle, living here Amid the traders eleven years or so. And this man for his hotel’s opening Had brought an orchestra from somewhere. Think Bass viols, violins, and horns and flutes. I’m dressed up like a princess for those days. I’m sixteen years of age and pass the door, Enter the ball-room where such candle-light As I had never seen shone on me, they Bored sockets in suspended wheels of wood And hung them from the ceiling, chandeliers! And at that moment all the orchestra Broke into music, yes, it was a waltz! And in that moment--what a moment-full! This hotel man presented you and said You were my partner for the evening. Jean I call this heaven, for its youth and love! I’m sixteen and you’re twenty and I love you. I slip my arm through yours for you to lead me, You are so strong, so ruddy, kind and brave. I want you for a husband, for a friend, A guide, a solace, father to the child That I can bear. Oh Jean how can I talk so In this lone church at mid-night of such things, With all these candles burning round your face. I who have rounded ninety-years, and look On what was sweet, long seventy years ago? Feeling this city even at mid-night move In restlessness, desire, around this church, Where once I saw the prairie grass and flowers; And saw the Indians in their colored trappings Pour from a bottle of whisky on the fire A tribute to the Spirit of the world, And dance and sing for madness of that Spirit?