John James Piatt (1835–1917)

FAR off a young State rises, full of might;

I paint its brave escutcheon. Near at hand

See the log cabin in the rough clearing stand;

A woman by its door, with steadfast sight,

Trustful, looks westward, where, uplifted bright,

Some city’s apparition, weird and grand,

In dazzling quiet fronts the lonely land,

With vast and marvelous structures wrought of light,

Motionless on the burning cloud afar:

The haunting vision of a time to be,

After the heroic age is ended here,

Built on the boundless, still horizon bar

By the low sun, his gorgeous prophecy

Lighting the doorway of the pioneer.