Quiet shores divinely hushed by kissing seas,
Corn-meads like the Mother's breast swelling and at ease,
All these hold me, fold me, that was not born of these.
I was born of the city's din
Where the World winds out and in
The endless ways man's hands do spin,
And men and women strive and sin
To win—I know not what to win.
Silver feet of twilight stepping from the East,
Golden wings of morning pointing to the South,