Red Jacket (From Aloft)

From ImmortalPoetry
Jump to navigationJump to search

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.

 

Add your comment
ImmortalPoetry welcomes all comments. If you do not want to be anonymous, register or log in. It is free.