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Harriet Monroe - Our Canal
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To Colonel Goethals and the Other Laborers in the Canal Zone


In lazy laughing Panama— 
O flutter of ribbon `twixt the seas!— 
The low-roofed houses lie afloat, 
White foam-drift of the Caribbees. 
Under lithe palms that fan the sky 
Down in each drowsy plaza there, 
Brown-footed girls go glancing by 
With red hibiscus in their hair. 
Low mountains, trailing veils of cloud, 
In the two oceans dip their feet, 
And hear the proud tides roaring loud 
Where Andes with Sierras meet. 
O Panama! O ribbon-twist 
That ties the continents together, 
Now East and West shall slip your tether 
And keep their ancient tryst. 

What are you doing here, 
Young men, with your engines vast? 
Sons of the pioneer 
Who conquered wastes austere 
And from ocean to ocean passed; 
Sons of the men who made 
Reaper and telegraph, 
Steamer and aeroplane— 
All the iron-handed things, 
Swift feet and tongues and wings, 
That would make the old gods laugh 
For the bitter games they played 
With the secrets they kept in vain: 
What are you doing here, 
Young men, with your dredges and drills 
That level the ancient hills 
Into a path for ships? 
Open your eyes and lips— 
What do you see and hear? 

"Oh, we build you the world`s last wonder, 
The thing not made with hands. 
Our steel beasts gnaw asunder 
The locked and laboring lands. 
We choke the torrent`s rage,
And bid him his wrath assuage
By drowning the jungle deep.
In steel-locked chambers gray
We hold his floods at bay,
On wide blue lakes asleep.
Now shall the brave ships ride
Over the crouching hill
From eager tide to tide,
That so we may fulfil
The iron century`s will;
That so our country, maker of tools sublime,
The nations may surprise
With this last gift of the grand old workman,
Time;
His prodigy powerful, delicate, sentient, wise, 
Perfect in strange completeness, strong to obey, 
Strong to compel the world along its way 
And praise man`s triumph in its mighty rhyme." 

But what are you doing here, 
Young men, with your flags?— 
With your glamour of joy severe 
With your villages up the hill, 
The screened little houses gay, 
Where the good of all is the will 
Of each in a grand new way? 
Sons of the men who founded 
New states in the wilds, to be 
Garden and range unbounded 
For young Democracy; 
Sons of the heroes dear 
Who fought for liberty, 
What are you doing here? 

"Look, it`s the same old fight 
Out of the dark to the light; 
Never the end shall be 
Till the last slave is free! 
Here while we dig the Ditch 
We would build you a perfect state, 
Where service makes men great 
And the great scorn to be rich; 
Where each man has his place 
And a measure more than his meed—. 
A banner of joy to grace 
The strength of the daily deed; 
Where Disease, trapped in his lair
With Squalor and Want and Care,
Is slain with the poison fume
He loosed for the proud world`s doom;
Where the Work is a marching song
Sung by us all together,
Bearing the race along
Through good and evil weather.
Oh tell them, shout it through the halls of time !—
When the Big Chief unrolls his glorious plan, 
Draws hearts and hands together in perfect rhyme, 
Nothing shall be impossible to Man!" 

But what are you doing here, 
Young men, with your gates? 
With your bells and beacons clear 
Where the hope of the whole world waits? 
With your call across the seas 
To the ships that circle afar, 
To the nations that burn and freeze 
Each under her separate star? 
Who followed the Truth austere, 
Of poets and prophets grave— 
What are you doing here? 

"Hush! we wait at the gate 
Till the dream shall be the law. 
He gave us our beacons and bells 
Who first the vision saw, 
And the fleets of the world in state 
Shall follow his caravels. 
Ghost-led, our ships shall sail 
West to the ancient East. 
Once more the quest of the Grail, 
And the greatest shall be the least. 
We shall circle the earth around 
With peace like a garland fine; 
The warring world shall be bound 
With a girdle of love divine. 
What build we from coast to coast? 
It`s a path for the Holy Ghost. 
Oh Tomorrow and Yesterday 
At its gate clasp hands, touch lips; 
They shall send men forth in ships 
To find the perfect way. 

"All that was writ shall be fulfilled at last. 
Come—till we round the circle, end the story. 
The west-bound sun leads forward to the past 
The thundering cruisers and the caravels. 
Tomorrow you shall hear our song of glory 
Rung in the chime of India`s temple bells."

O lazy laughing Panama! 
O flutter of ribbon `twixt the seas! 
Pirate and king your colors wore 
And stained with blood your golden keys. 
Now what strange guest, on what mad quest, 
Lifts up your trophy to the breeze! 
O Panama, O ribbon-twist 
That ties the continents together, 
Now East and West shall slip your tether 
And keep their ancient tryst.
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