I met an angel walking in Mallorca,
A sunflower striding, petalled with rays, a broad visage,
Who spoke sternly and with joy: “Hurry, hurry;
America, Revolution, Go home,” he said in Spanish.

As I turned westward I saw the sunflowers of Kansas
Walking up and down the land; I saw corn dances
Cross the prairies in the frescoes of bright Revolution
Painted with plenty in a sky-picture.
                                                          And America be-
         low like a map
Working in masses, turbulent, and in order. I saw, it
         seemed I saw
Sunflowers guarding the gold vaults in Wall Street.
I saw them open the bank; I saw the ripe wheat pour;
I saw ticker-tape torn; I saw the militant corn
Marching rank on rank down the Hudson.
                                                                   I hurried;
The westward passage was hard going against hilly
         Time.
All at once I tramped in a familiar barn-yard.
There stood a ruined Ford and a dead stalk
Fallen westward.

                           Clock on the mantel was the old
         clock, the time
Stale. Quarter to twelve, twelve the hour of change.
Meantime how live? Why suffer? Shall we drink corn,
Get tight, talk da-da, use the razor? No.
Clock’s almost noon. When noon whistle blows
The lid blows off, blows to smithereens. Come see
People, not flowers, silly fool, not fantasies in fables,
But Tom, Jack, Jill and Jane at work. They ram
The rods and turn the current on.