Daily Whitman


Spain, 1873-74

  Out of the murk of heaviest clouds,
  Out of the feudal wrecks and heap'd-up skeletons of kings,
  Out of that old entire European debris, the shatter'd mummeries,
  Ruin'd cathedrals, crumble of palaces, tombs of priests,
  Lo, Freedom's features fresh undimm'd look forth—the same immortal
      face looks forth;
  (A glimpse as of thy Mother's face Columbia,
  A flash significant as of a sword,
  Beaming towards thee.)

  Nor think we forget thee maternal;
  Lag'd'st thou so long? shall the clouds close again upon thee?
  Ah, but thou hast thyself now appear'd to us—we know thee,
  Thou hast given us a sure proof, the glimpse of thyself,
  Thou waitest there as everywhere thy time.



Posted on 07/08/2015, in literature, poetry and tagged , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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