The soul, its destinies, the real real, (Purport of all these apparitions of the real;) In thee America, the soul, its destinies, Thou globe of globes! thou wonder nebulous! By many a throe of heat and cold convuls’d, (by these thyself solidifying,) Thou mental, moral orb⁠—thou New, indeed new, Spiritual World! The Present holds thee not⁠—for such vast growth as thine, For such unparallel’d flight as thine, such brood as thine, The Future only holds thee and can hold thee.