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Walt Whitman - Or From That Sea Of Time
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Or, from that Sea of Time,
Spray, blown by the wind—a double winrow-drift of weeds and shells;
(O little shells, so curious-convolute! so limpid-cold and voiceless!
Yet will you not, to the tympans of temples held,
Murmurs and echoes still bring up—Eternity`s music, faint and far,
Wafted inland, sent from Atlantica`s rim—strains for the Soul of the
         Prairies,
Whisper`d reverberations—chords for the ear of the West, joyously
         sounding
Your tidings old, yet ever new and untranslatable 
Infinitesimals out of my life, and many a life,
(For not my life and years alone I give—all, all I give         


These thoughts and Songs—waifs from the deep—here, cast high and
         dry,
Wash`d on America`s shores.


Currents of starting a Continent new,
Overtures sent to the solid out of the liquid,
Fusion of ocean and land—tender and pensive waves,
(Not safe and peaceful only—waves rous`d and ominous too.
Out of the depths, the storm`s abysms—Who knows whence? Death`s
         waves,
Raging over the vast, with many a broken spar and tatter`d sail.)
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