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per.00130.002

SPAIN.1

Out of murk the 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; Lagg'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 Thy- 
  self;
Thou waitest there, as everywhere, thy time.
WALT WHITMAN.

Notes

1. Reprinted as "Spain, 1873-74" in Two Rivulets (1876). [back]

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