Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman

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YEARS of the modern! years of the unperform'd!

Your horizon rises—I see it parting away for more
august dramas;

I see not America only—I see not only Liberty's nation,
but other nations preparing;

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I see tremendous entrances and exits—I see new com-
binations—I see the solidarity of races;

I see that force advancing with irresistible power on the
world's stage;

(Have the old forces, the old wars, played their parts?
are the acts suitable to them closed?)

I see Freedom, completely arm'd, and victorious, and
very haughty, with Law on one side, and Peace
on the other,

A stupendous Trio, all issuing forth against the idea of
caste;

—What historic denouements are these we so rapidly
approach?

I see men marching and countermarching by swift mil-
lions;

I see the frontiers and boundaries of the old aristocracies
broken;

I see the landmarks of European kings removed;

I see this day the People beginning their landmarks,
(all others give way;)

—Never were such sharp questions ask'd as this day;

Never was average man, his soul, more energetic, more
like a God;

Lo! how he urges and urges, leaving the masses no
rest;

His daring foot is on land and sea everywhere—he col-
onizes the Pacific, the archipelagoes;

With the steam-ship, the electric telegraph, the news-
paper, the wholesale engines of war,

With these, and the world-spreading factories, he inter-
links all geography, all lands;

—What whispers are these, O lands, running ahead of
you, passing under the seas?

Are all nations communing? is there going to be but
one heart to the globe?

Is humanity forming, en-masse?—for lo! tyrants trem-
ble, crowns grow dim;

The earth, restive, confronts a new era, perhaps a gen-
eral divine war;

No one knows what will happen next—such portents
fill the days and nights;

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Years prophetical! the space ahead as I walk, as I vain-
ly try to pierce it, is full of phantoms;

Unborn deeds, things soon to be, project their shapes
around me;

This incredible rush and heat—this strange extatic
fever of dreams, O years!

Your dreams, O years, how they penetrate through me!
(I know not whether I sleep or wake!)

The perform'd America and Europe grow dim, retiring
in shadow behind me,

The unperform'd, more gigantic than ever, advance, ad-
vance upon me.

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