Classic Poem

Mother Asia, we stand at your threshold.
In a far immemorial yore
We left you, great Mother of Nations,
And now we return to your door.
We have circled the seas and their islands,
We have found us new worlds in the main,
We have found us young brides o'er the alien tides—
Now we come to our mother again.

We wandered through ages unnumbered,
We were mad with the fever to roam,
But the new flag that waves at Manila
Proclaims that your sons have come home.
There are weeds in the Gardens of Morning,
There are mildew and dearth and decay,
And your blind days are drear and your heart has grown sere
The years that your sons were away.

But turn your old eyes to the seaward
Where the flag of the West is discerned.
Be glad, gray old Mother of Nations,
The youth of the world has returned.
They come with the wealth of their wanderings,
They come with the strength of their pride;
Now, old mother, arise and lift up your dim eyes—
Behold your strong sons at your side!

They will toil in your Gardens of Morning,
They will cleanse you of mire and fen;
You shall hear the glad laughter of children,
You shall see the strong arms of young men.
Now hope shall come back to your borders,
Despair from your threshold be spurned,
A new day shall rise in your Orient skies—
The youth of the world has returned.