Wendell Phillips Stafford

O TITAN daughter crouching by the sea,

Playing with ships and channelling the sands

And gathering evermore in eager hands

Poor shells and pebbles for thy jewelry,

Unheedful how the nations swarm to thee

From all the shallows of distressful lands,—

More busy braiding weeds in idle bands

Than mothering the millions at thy knee,—

Oh, when thy destiny shall bid thee rise,

And thy god-heart with love of man shall burn,

How towards thy feet the human tides will yearn,

While all the muses waken in thine eyes,

And floods of blessing leave thy lifted urn

As April mornings overflow the skies!