Here, when Confucius came, a half a thousand years before the Nazarene, he stepped, with me, thus into timelessness. The stone beside us waxes old, the carven stone that says: "On this spot once Confucius stood and felt the smallness of the world below." The stone grows old: Eternity is not for stones. But I shall go down from this airy place, this swift white peace, this stinging exultation. And time will close about me, and my soul stir to the rhythm of the daily round. Yet, having known, life will not press so close, and always I shall feel time ravel thin about me; For once I stood In the white windy presence of eternity. The Chant of the Colorado. [Cale Young Rice] (At the Grand Canyon) My brother, man, shapes him a plan And builds him a house in a day, But I have toiled through a million years For a home to last alway. I have flooded the sands and washed them down, I have cut through gneiss and granite. No toiler of earth has wrought as I, Since God's first breath began it. High mountain-buttes I have chiselled, to shade My wanderings to the sea. With the wind's aid, and the cloud's aid, Unweary and mighty and unafraid, I have bodied eternity. My brother, man, builds for a span: His life is a moment's breath. But I have hewn for a million years, Nor a moment dreamt of death. By moons and stars I have measured my task -- And some from the skies have perished: But ever I cut and flashed and foamed, As ever my aim I cherished: My aim to quarry the heart of earth, Till, in the rock's red rise, Its age and birth, through an awful girth Of strata, should show the wonder-worth Of patience to all eyes. My brother, man, builds as he can, And beauty he adds for his joy, But all the hues of sublimity My pinnacled walls employ. Slow shadows iris them all day long, And silvery veils, soul-stilling, The moon drops down their precipices, Soft with a spectral thrilling. For all immutable dreams that sway With beauty the earth and air, Are ever at play, by night and day, My house of eternity to array In visions ever fair. The Water Ouzel. [Harriet Monroe] Little brown surf-bather of the mountains! Spirit of foam, lover of cataracts, shaking your wings in falling waters! Have you no fear of the roar and rush when Nevada plunges -- Nevada, the shapely dancer, feeling her way with slim white fingers? How dare you dash at Yosemite the mighty -- Tall, white limbed Yosemite, leaping down, down over the cliff? Is it not enough to lean on the blue air of mountains? Is it not enough to rest with your mate at timberline, in bushes that hug the rocks? Must you fly through mad waters where the heaped-up granite breaks them? Must you batter your wings in the torrent? Must you plunge for life and death through the foam? Old Manuscript. [Alfred Kreymborg]