It is not fair to see, our starry banner?
You, as an artist, who have pledged allegiance
Only to Beauty, find it crude in color,
Stiff in design, void of romantic symbol,
Unvenerable? England's golden lions,
Japan's chrysanthemum, imperial flower
Blooming in red as on a field of battle,
The holy cross of Switzerland, out-value
To all impartial, pure, aesthetic judgment
The flag our patriot folly terms Old Glory?

I cannot tell. Perchance I never saw it.
When on the seas or in some foreign city,
Nay, here at home above a country school-house,
I find it floating on the wind, it beckons
My heart into my eyes. It is not bunting,
Mere red and white and blue,—that starry cluster,
Those gleaming folds; it is the faith of childhood,
The unison of strong, rejoicing millions,
The splendor of a vision men have died for,
The passion of a people vowed to freedom.