} Washington’s Monument February, 1885

Ah, not this marble, dead and cold: 
Far from its base and shaft expanding—­the round zones circling,
    comprehending,
Thou, Washington, art all the world’s, the continents’ entire—­not
    yours alone, America,
Europe’s as well, in every part, castle of lord or laborer’s cot,
Or frozen North, or sultry South—­the African’s—­the Arab’s in his tent,
Old Asia’s there with venerable smile, seated amid her ruins;
(Greets the antique the hero new? ’tis but the same—­the heir
    legitimate, continued ever,
The indomitable heart and arm—­proofs of the never-broken line,
Courage, alertness, patience, faith, the same—­e’en in defeat
    defeated not, the same:)
Wherever sails a ship, or house is built on land, or day or night,
Through teeming cities’ streets, indoors or out, factories or farms,
Now, or to come, or past—­where patriot wills existed or exist,
Wherever Freedom, pois’d by Toleration, sway’d by Law,
Stands or is rising thy true monument.

} Of That Blithe Throat of Thine

Of that blithe throat of thine from arctic bleak and blank,
I’ll mind the lesson, solitary bird—­let me too welcome chilling drifts,
E’en the profoundest chill, as now—­a torpid pulse, a brain unnerv’d,
Old age land-lock’d within its winter bay—­(cold, cold, O cold!)
These snowy hairs, my feeble arm, my frozen feet,
For them thy faith, thy rule I take, and grave it to the last;
Not summer’s zones alone—­not chants of youth, or south’s warm tides alone,
But held by sluggish floes, pack’d in the northern ice, the cumulus
    of years,
These with gay heart I also sing.

} Broadway

What hurrying human tides, or day or night! 
What passions, winnings, losses, ardors, swim thy waters! 
What whirls of evil, bliss and sorrow, stem thee! 
What curious questioning glances—­glints of love! 
Leer, envy, scorn, contempt, hope, aspiration! 
Thou portal—­thou arena—­thou of the myriad long-drawn lines and groups! 
(Could but thy flagstones, curbs, facades, tell their inimitable tales;
Thy windows rich, and huge hotels—­thy side-walks wide;)
Thou of the endless sliding, mincing, shuffling feet! 
Thou, like the parti-colored world itself—­like infinite, teeming,
    mocking life! 
Thou visor’d, vast, unspeakable show and lesson!

} To Get the Final Lilt of Songs

To get the final lilt of songs,
To penetrate the inmost lore of poets—­to know the mighty ones,
Job, Homer, Eschylus, Dante, Shakespere, Tennyson, Emerson;
To diagnose the shifting-delicate tints of love and pride and doubt—­
    to truly understand,
To encompass these, the last keen faculty and entrance-price,
Old age, and what it brings from all its past experiences.

} Old Salt Kossabone