Serene, Indifferent Of Fate, Thou Sittest At The Western Gate; Upon Thy Height, So Lately Won, Still Slant The Banners Of The Sun; Thou Seest The White Seas Strike Their Tents, O Warder Of Two Continents! And, Scornful Of The Peace That Flies Thy Angry Winds And Sullen Skies, Thou Drawest All Things, Small, Or Great, To Thee, Beside The Western Gate. O Lion'S Whelp, That Hidest Fast In Jungle Growth Of Spire And Mast! I Know Thy Cunning And Thy Greed, Thy Hard High Lust And Willful Deed, And All Thy Glory Loves To Tell Of Specious Gifts Material. Drop Down, O Fleecy Fog, And Hide Her Skeptic Sneer And All Her Pride! Wrap Her, O Fog, In Gown And Hood Of Her Franciscan Brotherhood. Hide Me Her Faults, Her Sin And Blame; With Thy Gray Mantle Cloak Her Shame! So Shall She, Cowled, Sit And Pray Till Morning Bears Her Sins Away. Then Rise, O Fleecy Fog, And Raise The Glory Of Her Coming Days; Be As The Cloud That Flecks The Seas Above Her Smoky Argosies; When Forms Familiar Shall Give Place To Stranger Speech And Newer Face; When All Her Throes And Anxious Fears Lie Hushed In The Repose Of Years; When Art Shall Raise And Culture Lift The Sensual Joys And Meaner Thrift, And All Fulfilled The Vision We Who Watch And Wait Shall Never See; Who, In The Morning Of Her Race, Toiled Fair Or Meanly In Our Place, But, Yielding To The Common Lot, Lie Unrecorded And Forgot.