 | The pink book |  |
25
TO WALT WHITMAN.
Her prairies when the sun was low and red,
Her valleys of a morning, reedy shore
And moon-lit sea; her sobbing birds; the roar
And flash of the fights wherein in her brave sons bled;
Her dear, dear dying and heart-shrined dead;
Her cities, street and ferry, home and store,
Thrilled thy wild soul, O bard, with promptings sure,
And many mighty things of love thou hast said.
Her valleys of a morning, reedy shore
And moon-lit sea; her sobbing birds; the roar
And flash of the fights wherein in her brave sons bled;
Her dear, dear dying and heart-shrined dead;
Her cities, street and ferry, home and store,
Thrilled thy wild soul, O bard, with promptings sure,
And many mighty things of love thou hast said.
And most divine, most noble politics
Thine are, that would make loving comradeship
The rule of life for the world, as for two that rove.
Thy faith is sound and gracious—Naught can fix
The limit of affection. We may grip
And round and cover all things with this Love.
Thine are, that would make loving comradeship
The rule of life for the world, as for two that rove.
Thy faith is sound and gracious—Naught can fix
The limit of affection. We may grip
And round and cover all things with this Love.
| The pink book | |