Classic Poem

I sing to the trample of feet on golden floors—
A continent's court whose dust is drifting gold;
I chant with the voice of the flood that over it pours
Five hundred leagues at a lapse to the huge Gulf's hold.

I sing to the yielding of bolts of mountain doors,
To the echoes of iron that beat their measures bold,
While, east and west, to the strain of bursting stores,
Five hundred leagues asunder, the gates unfold.

Where the blind, quick seed of life for a thousand shores
Is blest by the harrow that sinks in the silent mold,
I sing to the tremble of steel where the trestle roars,
I chant to the throbbing of ships on seas untold!