Brain of the New World， what a task is thine，

    To formulate the Modern - out of the peerless grandeur of

    the modern，

    Out of thyself， comprising science， to recast poems， churches，

    art，

    （Recast， maybe discard them， end them - maybe their work

    is done， who knows？）

    By vision， hand， conception， on the background of the

    mighty past， the dead，

    To limn with absolute faith the mighty living present.

    And yet thou living present brain， heir of the dead， the Old

    World brain，

    Thou that lay folded like an unborn babe within its fold so

    long，

    Thou carefully prepared by it so long - haply thou but

    unfoldest it， only maturest it，

    It to eventuate in thee - the essence of the by-gone time

    contain'd in thee，

    Its poems， churches， arts， unwitting to themselves， destined

    with reference to thee；

    Thou but the apples， long， long， long a-growing，

    The fruit of all the Old ripening to-day in thee.