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Walt Whitman - Spain 1873-`74
Work rating: Low

OUT of the murk of 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;
Lag`d`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 Thyself;
Thou waitest there, as everywhere, thy time.
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