Election Day, November, 1884

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from Leaves of Grass: BOOK XXXIV. SANDS AT SEVENTY - by Walt Whitman.

  If I should need to name, O Western World, your powerfulest scene and show,
  ’Twould not be you, Niagara—nor you, ye limitless prairies—nor
      your huge rifts of canyons, Colorado,
  Nor you, Yosemite—nor Yellowstone, with all its spasmic
      geyser-loops ascending to the skies, appearing and disappearing,
  Nor Oregon’s white cones—nor Huron’s belt of mighty lakes—nor
      Mississippi’s stream:
  —This seething hemisphere’s humanity, as now, I’d name—the still
      small voice vibrating—America’s choosing day,
  (The heart of it not in the chosen—the act itself the main, the
      quadriennial choosing,)
  The stretch of North and South arous’d—sea-board and inland—
      Texas to Maine—the Prairie States—Vermont, Virginia, California,
  The final ballot-shower from East to West—the paradox and conflict,
  The countless snow-flakes falling—(a swordless conflict,
  Yet more than all Rome’s wars of old, or modern Napoleon’s:) the
      peaceful choice of all,
  Or good or ill humanity—welcoming the darker odds, the dross:
  —Foams and ferments the wine? it serves to purify—while the heart
      pants, life glows:
  These stormy gusts and winds waft precious ships,
  Swell’d Washington’s, Jefferson’s, Lincoln’s sails.

 

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