Of space! Of room! What a sense of seas,
Where the seas are not! What a salt like breeze!
What dust and taste of quick alkali!
.... Then hills! green, brown, then black like night,
All fierce and defiant against the sky!
“At last! at last! O steed new-born,
Born strong of the will of the strong New World,
We shoot to the summit, with the shafts of morn,
On the mount of Thunder, where clouds are curl’d,
Below in a splendor of the sun-clad seas.