Song of the Exposition
9 And thou, the Emblem waving over all! Delicate beauty, a word to thee, (it may be salutary,) Remember thou hast not always been as here to-day so comfortably ensovereign'd, In other scenes than these have I observ'd thee flag, Not quite so trim and whole and freshly blooming in folds of stainless silk, But I have seen thee bunting, to tatters torn upon thy splinter'd staff, Or clutch'd to some young color-bearer's breast with desperate hands, Savagely struggled for, for life or death, fought over long, 'Mid cannons' thunder-crash and many a curse and groan and yell, and rifle-volleys cracking sharp, And moving masses as wild demons surging, and lives as nothing risk'd, For thy mere remnant grimed with dirt and smoke and sopp'd in blood, For sake of that, my beauty, and that thou might'st dally as now secure up there, Many a good man have I seen go under. Now here and these and hence in peace, all thine O Flag! And here and hence for thee, O universal Muse! and thou for them! And here and hence O Union, all the work and workmen thine! None separate from thee—henceforth One only, we and thou, (For the blood of the children, what is it, only the blood maternal? And lives and works, what are they all at last, except the roads to faith and death?) While we rehearse our measureless wealth, it is for thee, dear Mother, We own it all and several to-day indissoluble in thee; Think not our chant, our show, merely for products gross or lucre— it is for thee, the soul in thee, electric, spiritual! Our farms, inventions, crops, we own in thee! cities and States in thee! Our freedom all in thee! our very lives in thee!
Posted on 16/10/2014, in literature, poetry and tagged 19th Century Poetry, American literature, American poets, Daily Whitman, free verse, Leaves of Grass, literature, poems, poetry, Transcendentalists, Walt Whitman. Bookmark the permalink. 1 Comment.