They seem to me at last as perfect as the animals, and as the rocks and weeds—fitted to them,

Fitted to the sky, to float with floating clouds—to rustle among the trees with rustling leaves,

To stretch with stretched and level waters, where ships silently sail in the distance,

3. What do you suppose Creation is?

What do you suppose will satisfy the Soul, except to walk free and own no superior?

What do you suppose I have intimated to you in a hundred ways, but that man or woman is as good as God?

And that there is no God any more divine than Yourself?

And that that is what the oldest and newest myths finally mean?

And that you or any one must approach Creations through such laws?

1. Poets to come!

Not to-day is to justify me, and Democracy, and what we are for,

But you, a new brood, native, athletic, continental, greater than before known,

You must justify me.