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Walt Whitman (1819–1892). Leaves of Grass. 1900.

145. Lo! Victress on the Peaks

LO! Victress on the peaks!

Where thou, with mighty brow, regarding the world,

(The world, O Libertad, that vainly conspired against thee;)

Out of its countless beleaguering toils, after thwarting them all;

Dominant, with the dazzling sun around thee,

Flauntest now unharm’d, in immortal soundness and bloom—lo! in these hours supreme,

No poem proud, I, chanting, bring to thee—nor mastery’s rapturous verse;

But a book, containing night’s darkness, and blood-dripping wounds,

And psalms of the dead.