Under fresh flowers of that May morn, beside
The queens and cave-women of ancient earth.
This is the hill ... and over my city’s towers
Across the world from sunset, yonder in air,
Shines, through its scaffoldings, a civic dome
Of piled masonry, which shall be ours
To give, completed, to our children there ...
And yonder far roof of my abandoned home
Shall house new laughter.... Yet I tried ... I tried ...
And, ever wistful of the doom to come,