II. Columbia

So. After slow, long, leaden years, it seems
This dream will wake at last, taking on flesh
Of steel, of stone reforged beyond the dreams
Of those old artisans who — when still fresh
Ran the reeded streams of Indus, Tigris,
Nile — forged there out of mud that more-than-stone,
To shape their pots, their walls, their gods. By this
A kinship, mortal awe of the unknown,
Despite all doubts, despite the chatter — that
Is shattered by a sword too bright to see,
Reflecting twin flames from the marshy flat:
A roaring, fused into a Shape set free,
Archangelic, on pillared smoke and fire
Sending up to the stars our winged desire.