By Julia Post
Where does the American go to die?
On which hill top does his spirit lie?
When his legs will not carry him but one more night?
Does he wander down to Ocean Grove?
Or seek out a quiet Western cove?
Will he rest alone upon the heath
but one more night?
Does he care to sing the Leaves of Grass?
Thunder silent through the mountain pass?
Will he birth his barbaric yawp
but one more night?
Does he think of empires, lost?
Of the world he kept – the cost?
Will his eyes light at the Eagle’s call
but one more night?
Or does he set out in his canoe?
Determined to taste the morning dew?
He will be Master of the Earth
but one more night.
Azure Bell 