Classic Poem

Like fragments of an uncompleted world,
From icy bleak Alaska, white with spray,
To where the peaks of Darien lie curled
In clouds, the broken lands loom bold and gray.
The seamen nearing San Francisco Bay,
Forget the compass here; with sturdy hand
They seize the wheel, look up, then bravely lay
The ship to shore by snowy peaks that stand
The stern and proud patrician fathers of the land.

They stand, white stairs of heaven — stand, a line
Of climbing, endless, and eternal white.
They look upon the far and flashing brine,
Upon the boundless plains, the broken height
Of Kamiakin's battlements. The flight
Of time is underneath their untopped towers.
They seem to push aside the moon at night,
To jostle and unloose the stars. The flowers
Of Heaven fall about their brows in shining showers.

They stand, a line of lifted snowy isles,
High held above a tossed and tumbled sea —
A sea of wood in wild unmeasured miles:
White pyramids of Faith, where man is free;
White monuments of Hope, that yet shall be
The mounts of matchless and immortal song. . . .
I look far down the hollow days; I see
The bearded prophets, simple-souled and strong,
That fill the hills and thrill with song the heeding throng.

Serene and satisfied! supreme! white, lone
As God, they loom above cloud-banners furled;
They look as cold as kings upon a throne:
The mantling wings of night are crushed and curled
As feathers curl. The elements are hurled
From off their bosoms, and are bidden go,
Like evil spirits, to an under-world.
They stretch from Cariboo to Mexico,
A line of battle-tents in everlasting snow.