Elizabeth McFarland

I saw how beautiful your mansions are — Your lakes and valleys and your peopled plain, But thought of  all that loss with all that gain, And one geography is not enough. One world, one world to loose the spirit in, Will not contain a continental ghost. I have a dream of   islands drunk and lost, Of   cities shining with a ripe decay Where old ships feed about their harbors' knees, — Far, far beyond your small and private seas.

I thought of   Donne, and how the pride must war — Of  Manley Hopkins, godlier by far, His filial bemusement death and birth Counting the spots of   God on this, God's earth. And then, asleep, I dreamed of  Henry Ford Wandering beardless down orchestral ways Of  factories. A patriarchal lord, Counting his beads of  praise.