Spain 1873â€“â€™74. by Walt Whitman
OUT of the murk of heaviest clouds,
Out of the feudal wrecks, and heapâ€™d-up skeletons of kings,
Out of that old entire European debrisâ€”the shatterâ€™d mummeries,
Ruinâ€™d cathedrals, crumble of palaces, tombs of priests,
Lo! Freedomâ€™s features, fresh, undimmâ€™d, look forthâ€”the same immortal face
(A glimpse as of thy motherâ€™s face, Columbia,
A flash significant as of a sword,
Beaming towards thee.)
Nor think we forget thee, Maternal;
Lagâ€™dâ€™st thou so long? Shall the clouds close again upon thee?
Ah, but thou hast Thyself now appearâ€™d to usâ€”we know thee;
Thou hast given us a sure proof, the glimpse of Thyself;
Thou waitest there, as everywhere, thy time.