Clay warm yet with the genial heat of earth,
Dashed through it all a strain of prophecy:
Then mixed a laughter with the serious stuff,
It was a stuff to wear for centuries,
A man that matched the mountains and compelled
The stars to look our way and honor us.
The color of the ground was in him, the red Earth
The tang and odor of the primal things—
The rectitude and patience of the rocks:
The gladness of the wind that shakes the corn;