O beautiful for spacious skies, For amber waves of grain, For purple mountain majesties Above the fruited plain! America! America! God shed His grace… - Katharine Lee Bates

Because the years are few, I must be glad; Because the silence is so near, I sing; "Twere ill to quit an inn where I have had Such bounteous fare nor pay my reckoning. I would not, from some gleaming parapet Of Sirius or Vega, bend my gaze On a remembered sparkle and regret That from it thanklessly I went my ways Up through the starry colonnades nor found Violets in any Paradise more blue Than those that blossomed on my own waste ground Nor vespers sweeter than the robins knew.

Call me thy foe in thy passion; claim me in peace for thy friend; Yet bethink thee by lowland and upland, wherever thou wiliest to wend, I am thine Angel of Judgment; mine eyes thou must meet in the end.

That which thou wouldst be thou must be, that which thou shalt be thou art; As the oak, astir in the acorn, the dull earth rendeth apart, Lo thou, the seed of thy longing, that breaketh and waketh the heart.