We were in Georgia. You can get this land

If hell is multiplied by paradise,

Bare indigence by tenderness, and if

A hothouse serves as pedestal for ice.

And then you’ll know what subtle doses of

Success and labor, duty, mountain air

Make the right mixture with the earth and sky

For man to be the way we found him there.

So that he grew, in famine and defeat

And bondage, to this stature, without fault,

Becoming thus a model and a mold,

Something as stable and as plain as salt.