I shall go down into this land
Of the great Northwest:
This land of the free ordinance,
This land made free for the free
By the patriarchs.
Shall it be Michigan,
Or Illinois,
Or Indiana?
These are my people,
These are my lovers, my friends —
Mingle my dust with theirs,
Ye sacred powers!
Clouds, like convoys on infinite missions,
Bound for infinite harbors
Float over the length of this land.
And in the centuries to come
The rocks and trees of this land will turn,
These fields and hills will turn
Under unending convoys of clouds —
O ye clouds!
Drench my dust and mingle it
With the dust of the pioneers;
My mates, my friends,
Toilers and sufferers,
Builders and dreamers,
Lovers of freedom.
O Earth that looks into space,
As a man in sleep looks up,
And is voiceless, at peace,
Divining the secret —
I shall know the secret
When I go down into this land
Of the great Northwest!
Draw my dust
With the dust of my beloved
Into the substance of a great rock,
Upon whose point a planet flames,
Nightly, in a thrilling moment
Of divine revelation
Through endless time!