A dreamy haze hangs over many roofs.

Far in the distance low hills roll away

To meet the sky. The sea of common homes

Is still beneath the heavy summer day.

Slender against the sky I see a spire,

And there a windowed tower; I can see

White wisps of chimney smoke that slowly float

To meet the clouds and sky. There, high and free

From a school-house pole there hangs in the wind

A flag. And this is America, I say:

The low hills in the distance, and a spire,

The flag, and the roofs, and a summer day.