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From “I Sing of My Life While I Live It”
The Immigrant at Columbia
GAJOR, richest of the Syrians, is my friend. | |
| He sends me to the vast school, | |
| Where the great square-winged houses circle | |
| And call the young men in. | |
| “Come! Come, beyond our pillars and our fountains! | 5 |
| Come from the restless, spending city, | |
| Passionate and cold. | |
| Her blistered mouth would drink you dry | |
| Ere your eager hopes had found a soil and a sun | |
| To draw them to a high bursting fragrance and a white, white bloom, | 10 |
| Roofing the world! | |
| Come behind my gray-brown walls— | |
| Even, strong, sober walls without towers. | |
| Like a warm, still wine in the cup of youth, | |
| Lift up your young blood here | 15 |
| To the lips of learning!” | |
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| O Alma Mater: | |
| From the red, red dust, the long dead dust | |
| Of ancient Syria, I come | |
| To lie between thy feet of lasting bronze | 20 |
| And look up—and look up! | |
| To see thy laureled head— | |
| Massive, calm, with gloried brow— | |
| Flame before the open portals of the House of Books; | |
| Where the thoughts of noble men— | 25 |
| Dressed in all habits, speaking all tongues, | |
| Gathered from all ages of time— | |
| Meet like pilgrims at one shrine, | |
| For the worship of service to thy sons. | |
| O mother, thy brow shines loftily | 30 |
| Above the endless sullen roar of heavy whips | |
| In the unmastered market of slaves! | |
| What light is on thy face, brighter than the dawn? | |
| It is the wide-flung beauty of her Torch—the Other Woman, | |
| Who stands upon the sea as thou upon the land, | 35 |
| And lifts her light, | |
| Beckoning the sons of weeping centuries | |
| Out of their long dead dust, across the ten great seas, | |
| Into this harbor! | |
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| Ay, into this harbor have I come, | 40 |
| Where white sails of the world, like strings of a pearled lute, | |
| Chant Liberty—and Liberty—and Liberty, | |
| In the crashing wind of her lifted arm! | |
| (Oh, chords from the smitten silver of light!)— | |
| Mother, thy breast is bared and beating high to catch that song! | 45 |
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