Thy saviours countless, latent within thyself, thy bibles incessant within thyself, equal to any, divine as any, (Thy soaring course thee formulating, not in thy two great wars, nor in thy century’s visible growth, But far more in these leaves and chants, thy chants, great Mother!) Thee in an education grown of thee, in teachers, studies, students, born of thee, Thee in thy democratic fêtes en-masse, thy high original festivals, operas, lecturers, preachers, Thee in thy ultimata, (the preparations only now completed, the edifice on sure foundations tied,) Thee in thy pinnacles, intellect, thought, thy topmost rational joys, thy love and godlike aspiration, In thy resplendent coming literati, thy full-lung’d orators, thy sacerdotal bards, kosmic savans, These! these in thee, (certain to come,) to-day I prophesy.