If I should need to name, O Western World, your
powerfulest scene and show,
‘Twould not be you, Niagara–nor you, ye limitless
prairies–nor your huge rifts of canyons, Colorado,
Nor you, Yosemite–nor Yellowstone, with all its
spasmic geyser-loops ascending to the skies,
appearing and disappearing,
Nor Oregon’s white cones–nor Huron’s belt of mighty
lakes–nor Mississippi’s stream:
–This seething hemisphere’s humanity, as now,
I’d name–the still small voice vibrating–America’s
choosing day,
(The heart of it not in the chosen–the act itself the
main, the quadriennial choosing,)
The stretch of North and South arous’d–sea-board
and inland–Texas to Maine–the Prairie States–
Vermont, Virginia, California,
The final ballot-shower from East to West–the
paradox and conflict,
The countless snow-flakes falling–(a swordless
conflict,
Yet more than all Rome’s wars of old, or modern
Napoleon’s:) the peaceful choice of all,
Or good or ill humanity–welcoming the darker
odds, the dross:
–Foams and ferments the wine? it serves to
purify–while the heart pants, life glows:
These stormy gusts and winds waft precious ships,
Swell’d Washington’s, Jefferson’s, Lincoln’s sails.
Suzanne's Mom's Blog 