Walt Whitman

LEAVES OF GRASS
(1891-92 issue)
complete book, e-book

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2

 Superb-faced Manhattan!
 Comrade Americanos! to us, then at last the Orient comes.
 To us, my city,
 Where our tall-topt marble and iron beauties range on opposite
 sides, to walk in the space between,
 To-day our Antipodes comes.
 
 The Originatress comes,
 The nest of languages, the bequeather of poems, the race of eld,
 Florid with blood, pensive, rapt with musings, hot with passion,
 Sultry with perfume, with ample and flowing garments,
 With sunburnt visage, with intense soul and glittering eyes,
 The race of Brahma comes.
 
 See my cantabile! these and more are flashing to us from the procession,
 As it moves changing, a kaleidoscope divine it moves changing before us.
 
 
 For not the envoys nor the tann'd Japanee from his island only,
 Lithe and silent the Hindoo appears, the Asiatic continent itself
 appears, the past, the dead,
 The murky night-morning of wonder and fable inscrutable,
 The envelop'd mysteries, the old and unknown hive-bees,
 The north, the sweltering south, eastern Assyria, the Hebrews, the
 ancient of ancients,
 Vast desolated cities, the gliding present, all of these and more
 are in the pageant-procession.
 
 Geography, the world, is in it,
 The Great Sea, the brood of islands, Polynesia, the coast beyond,
 The coast you henceforth are facing--you Libertad! from your Western
 golden shores,
 The countries there with their populations, the millions en-masse
 are curiously here,
 The swarming market-places, the temples with idols (...)
(......)