by Amy Lowell

    Where else in all America are we so symbolized¹

    As in this hall？

    White columns polished like glass，

    A dome² and a dome，

    A balcony and a balcony，

    Stairs and the balustrades to them，

    Yellow marble and red slabs³ of it，

    All mounting， spearing， flying into color.

    Color round the dome and up to it，

    Color curving， kite-flying， to the second dome，

    Light， dropping， pitching down upon the color，

    Arrow-falling upon the glass-bright pillars，

    Mingled⁴ colors spinning into a shape of white pillars，

    Fusing， cooling， into balanced shafts⁵ of shrill⁶ and interthronging light.

    This is America，

    This vast， confused beauty，

    This staring， restless speed of loveliness，

    Mighty⁷， overwhelming， crude， of all forms，

    Making grandeur⁸ out of profusion⁹，

    Afraid of no incongruities¹⁰，

    Sublime¹¹ in its audacity¹²，

    Bizarre breaker of moulds，

    Laughing with strength，

    Charging down on the past，

    Glorious and conquering，

    Destroyer， builder，

    Invincible¹³ pith and marrow¹⁴ of the world，

    An old world remaking，

    Whirling into the no-world of all-colored light.