Book 32 — Spain, 1873-74

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.

By broad Potomac’s shore, again old tongue, (Still uttering, still ejaculating, canst never cease this babble?) Again old heart so gay, again to you, your sense, the full flush spring returning, Again the freshness and the odors, again Virginia’s summer sky, pellucid blue and silver, Again the forenoon purple of the hills, Again the deathless grass, so noiseless soft and green, Again the blood-red roses blooming. Perfume this book of mine O blood-red roses! Lave subtly with your waters every line Potomac! Give me of you O spring, before I close, to put between its pages! O forenoon purple of the hills, before I close, of you! O deathless grass, of you!