It is the pride of the town.
Tomorrow there will be a new pride, a new blowing of bugles. But for today we are content.
This is our own, rooted with steel roots in the soil of our land, sprung from our own dreams, owing allegiance to none.
Its slender whiteness, like a birch in the moonlight, is a new form on the earth, raiment for a new need.
It carries the stars more surely than Atlas carried them. The pillars of Karnak are its younger brothers, and the spires of cathedrals are germane to it.
The phallic wisdom of the ancients lives in it.
Yet this is our own, and none of these. As we are young and lusty under the sun, so this is young, so this is lusty.
On its white prow the future stands, beating white wings, crying the cry of hope.
Tomorrow we shall have a new pride.
But for today we are content.