When the Norn Mother saw the Whirlwind Hour        | Sprung from the West,
Greatening and darkening as it hurried on,         | The strength of virgin forests braced his mind,
She left the Heaven of Heroes and came down        | The hush of spacious prairies stilled his soul.
To make a man to meet the mortal need.             | Up from log cabin to the Capitol,
She took the tried clay of the common road --      | One fire was on his spirit, one resolve --
Clay warm yet with the genial heat of Earth,       | To send the keen ax to the root of wrong,
Dashed through it all a strain of prophecy;        | Clearing a free way for the feet of God.
Tempered the heap with thrill of human tears;      | And evermore he burned to do his deed
Then mixed a laughter with the serious stuff.      | With the fine stroke and gesture of a king:
Into the shape she breathed a flame to light       | He built the rail-pile as he built the State,
That tender, tragic, ever-changing face.           | Pouring his splendid strength through every blow,
Here was a man to hold against the world,          | The conscience of him testing every stroke,
A man to match the mountains and the sea.          | To make his deed the measure of a man.
                                                   |
The color of the ground was in him, the red earth; | So came the Captain with the mighty heart;
The smack and tang of elemental things;            | And when the judgment thunders split the house,
The rectitude and patience of the cliff;           | Wrenching the rafters from their ancient rest,
The good-will of the rain that loves all leaves;   | He held the ridgepole up, and spiked again
The friendly welcome of the wayside well;          | The rafters of the Home. He held his place --
The courage of the bird that dares the sea;        | Held the long purpose like a growing tree --
The gladness of the wind that shakes the corn;     | Held on through blame and faltered not at praise.
The pity of the snow that hides all scars;         | And when he fell in whirlwind, he went down
The secrecy of streams that make their way         | As when a lordly cedar, green with boughs,
Beneath the mountain to the rifted rock;           | Goes down with a great shout upon the hills,
The tolerance and equity of light                  | And leaves a lonesome place against the sky.
That gives as freely to the shrinking flower       |
As to the great oak flaring to the wind --         |
To the grave's low hill as to the Matterhorn       |
That shoulders out the sky.                        | - Edwin Markham
