Daily Whitman



  Of these years I sing,
  How they pass and have pass'd through convuls'd pains, as through
  How America illustrates birth, muscular youth, the promise, the sure
      fulfilment, the absolute success, despite of people—illustrates
      evil as well as good,
  The vehement struggle so fierce for unity in one's-self,
  How many hold despairingly yet to the models departed, caste, myths,
      obedience, compulsion, and to infidelity,
  How few see the arrived models, the athletes, the Western States, or
      see freedom or spirituality, or hold any faith in results,
  (But I see the athletes, and I see the results of the war glorious
      and inevitable, and they again leading to other results.)

  How the great cities appear—how the Democratic masses, turbulent,
      willful, as I love them,
  How the whirl, the contest, the wrestle of evil with good, the
      sounding and resounding, keep on and on,
  How society waits unform'd, and is for a while between things ended
      and things begun,
  How America is the continent of glories, and of the triumph of
      freedom and of the Democracies, and of the fruits of society, and
      of all that is begun,
  And how the States are complete in themselves—and how all triumphs
      and glories are complete in themselves, to lead onward,
  And how these of mine and of the States will in their turn be
      convuls'd, and serve other parturitions and transitions,
  And how all people, sights, combinations, the democratic masses too,
      serve—and how every fact, and war itself, with all its horrors,
  And how now or at any time each serves the exquisite transition of death.


Posted on 17/08/2015, in literature, poetry and tagged , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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