When we want it, we will get it. Let the American people put in their order now.
In the meantime the Piles and the Derricks.
All these young and mighty derricks against the sky, all these soaring steel girders with the blue through them—America!
Ah, my God! is it not a hoping nation? Three thousand miles of Hope, from Eastport, Maine, to San Francisco—does not the very sun itself racing across it take three hours to get one look at our Hope?
Here it is!—Our World.
Let me, for one, say what I want.
It is already as if I had seen it—one big, heroic imagination at work at last like a sea upon our world, poetry grappling with the great cities, with their labour, with their creative might, full of their vast joys and sorrows, full of their tussle with the sea and with the powers of the air and with the iron in the earth!—the big, speechless cities that no one has spoken for yet, so splendid, and so eager, and so silent about their souls!
It is true we are crude and young.
Behold the Derricks like mighty Youths!
In our glorious adolescence so sublime, so ugly, so believing, will no one sing a hymn to the Derricks?