On the Building of Springfield

Let not our town be large, remembering         That little Athens was the Muses' home,         That Oxford rules the heart of London still,         That Florence gave the Renaissance to Rome.         Record it for the grandson of your son -         A city is not builded in a day:         Our little town cannot complete her soul         Till countless generations pass away.         Now let each child be joined as to a church         To her perpetual hopes, each man ordained:         Let every street be made a reverent aisle         Where Music grows and Beauty is unchained.         Let Science and Machinery and Trade         Be slaves of her, and make her all in all,         Building against our blatant, restless time         An unseen, skilful, medieval wall.         Let every citizen be rich toward God.         Let Christ the beggar, teach divinity.         Let no man rule who holds his money dear.         Let this, our city, be our luxury.         We should build parks that students from afar         Would choose to starve in, rather than go home,         Fair little squares, with Phidian ornament,         Food for the spirit, milk and honeycomb.         Songs shall be sung by us in that good day,         Songs we have written, blood within the rhyme         Beating, as when Old England still was glad, -         The purple, rich Elizabethan time.                  .        .        .        .        .         Say, is my prophecy too fair and far?         I only know, unless her faith be high,         The soul of this, our Nineveh, is doomed,         Our little Babylon will surely die.         Some city on the breast of Illinois         No wiser and no better at the start         By faith shall rise redeemed, by faith shall rise         Bearing the western glory in her heart.         The genius of the Maple, Elm and Oak,         The secret hidden in each grain of corn,         The glory that the prairie angels sing         At night when sons of Life and Love are born,         Born but to struggle, squalid and alone,         Broken and wandering in their early years.         When will they make our dusty streets their goal,         Within our attics hide their sacred tears?         When will they start our vulgar blood athrill         With living language, words that set us free?         When will they make a path of beauty clear         Between our riches and our liberty?         We must have many Lincoln-hearted men.         A city is not builded in a day.         And they must do their work, and come and go         While countless generations pass away.