Perhaps, Two-hundred years ago, Jefferson himself Stood on this promenade And stared westward Through the leafless trees, Silhouetted dark And grim Against the fog. What thoughts were his That Christmas-coming night, Dark, dank, Without light? Could he see, Using heart and mind, What kind of sight, Tonight, I saw? Could he imagine How the country He helped conceive Would grow? Could he catch Some glimmering Of the forty thousand Lights that tonight Moved my soul To write this poem? Or was he Merely cold, old, Weary of the wars And wishing He were in his bed Instead? Somehow, I think He saw the lights, Saw what might Someday come to be, Saw what I would one day see.
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