Red Jacket (From Aloft)

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

  Upon this scene, this show,
  Yielded to-day by fashion, learning, wealth,
  (Nor in caprice alone—some grains of deepest meaning,)
  Haply, aloft, (who knows?) from distant sky-clouds’ blended shapes,
  As some old tree, or rock or cliff, thrill’d with its soul,
  Product of Nature’s sun, stars, earth direct—a towering human form,
  In hunting-shirt of film, arm’d with the rifle, a half-ironical
      smile curving its phantom lips,
  Like one of Ossian’s ghosts looks down.


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