A nation, once declared, must still be won
And that accomplished may still be undone
By ignorance and squabbles, hates and fears.
Once signatures are dry, the task appears:
To make them true--not finish what's begun,
But to begin. The war is still to run,
And then the peace, with its own dangers, nears.
Republics are not nearly automatic:
Perhaps, like watches, they too must be wound.
The declaration--grand, intense, emphatic--
Is nothing on its own but words and sound.
But it can be a horologe's schematic:
The grand ideals are still there to be found.
