Perhaps this page will cradle in the dark
And lonely place between the ends of time.
Perhaps the halting measure of these marks
Will find a breath to voice these English rhymes.
Perhaps the old republic will survive
The follies of this egoistic age.
Perhaps a wiser future will revive
The slight conceits we flatter on a page.
And yet it seems to me that we will fail
And fall out of the virile minds of men,
For like a bitter salt that wastes the soil
We’ve spoiled our country and we’ve sown our end.
Surely this indifferent age will pass:
Only virtue, strength, and honor last.