May Is Much Sunshine Through Small Leaves.

Freighted With Hope, Crimsoned With Joy, We Scatter The Leaves Of Our Opening Rose.

This Is America, This Vast, Confused Beauty, This Staring, Restless Speed Of Loveliness, Mighty, Overwhelming, Crude, Of All Forms, Making Grandeur Out Of Profusion, Afraid Of No Incongruities, Sublime In Its Audacity, Bizarre Breaker Of Moulds.

If What We Worship Fail Us, Still The Fire Burns On, And It Is Much To Have Believed.

So With The Stretch Of The White Road Before Me, Shining Snow Crystals Rainbowed By The Sun, Fields That Are White, Stained With Long, Cool, Blue Shadows, Strong With The Strength Of My Horse As We Run. Joy In The Touch Of The Wind And The Sunlight! Joy! With The Vigorous Earth I Am One.

This Is War: Boys Flung Into A Breach Like Shoveled Earth; And Old Men, Broken, Driving Rapidly Before Crowds Of People In A Glitter Of Silly Decorations. Behind The Boys And The Old Men, Life Weeps, And Shreds Her Garments To The Blowing Winds.