O strange new world that was the old!
O strange old world that was the young!
That greeted from strange altar fires,
From strange new gods, with strange new tongue!
Nor yet guite wholly understood-
Mysterious, magic, mystic land-
Yet answering still to lure, and thrill,
I reach my heart, I lift my hand.

Old with old story, thou, before
Cortez had given to thee the cross;
Queen Tula sang her people free;
Sad Montezuma wept their loss.
And greater far thy tale to be
As the close pages are unfurled-
Thy golden scroll of destiny,
O wonder of the old new world!

Fair in all beauty-mountain-peak
And forest-breadth and stream and sea,
And marvel of the flowering field
And of the desert mystery,
And proud-aye, proud and strong thy sons;
But ah! how fair the womanhood
Within whose gentle grasp there lie
Such wondrous potencies for good.

Thou leadest. Lead! In freedom strong,
Soldier of purity and peace,
Till war and strife are things that were,
And all of ill forever cease.
For still the peerless treasure shines-
The flowerful faces as of yore,
The pearls and gold that lured the old
Conquistadores to thy shore.

And kindred under the same skies,
Thy land, my land, aye, Sisters we!
The One who fashioned made us one,
Forever bound, forever free;
And love is wide as is the earth-
A rainbow love, from strand to strand-
O Sisters, Daughters of the sun,
I reach my heart! I lift my hand!

Mine, to loose or to hold,
I held it, thus, in my hand.
Mine, to fetter or free-
Which should it be?
Dear little wings of gold,
Dear little voice that trilled
All the gay summer long,
Making each day a song!
Well, but one tires at times
Of even one’s favorite rhymes;
Of roses, oversweet,
Of joys that are too complete,
Of all things in one’s reach;
And just to be alone
With silence sweeter than speech,
Seems best of all things known.
Mine to command,
Hold captive, as I willed:
Little light wings, away!
Into the golden day,
Away, away, -
Into the golden sky-
Good-by! Good-by!

That was a year ago:
Was it well, was it wiser so?
Shall I ever, ever know?
A whole long weary year,
And summer is here:
But the rose a redness lacks,
And the sun is chill,
And the world, somehow, too still,
And time a dreary tax
On body and heart and brain.
Would it be less, I wonder,
If I could only hear
A piping, soft and clear,
A little mellow strain
Come back again?
Or see the flutterings
Of dainty golden wings,
That clove heaven’s blue asunder,
Away and away from me
Away and away,
On one poor foolish day?
Ah, well! Was it so to be,
And better so?
I shall never, never know.
It is gone-let it go.
But O, for the dear love-strain
Mine once, mine never again!
For the fluttering wings of gold,
Mine to loose or to hold-
Held lightly, loosened-so-
A year ago!