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

295. O Sun of Real Peace

O SUN of real peace! O hastening light!

O free and extatic! O what I here, preparing, warble for!

O the sun of the world will ascend, dazzling, and take his height—and you too, O my Ideal, will surely ascend!

O so amazing and broad—up there resplendent, darting and burning!

O vision prophetic, stagger’d with weight of light! with pouring glories!

O lips of my soul, already becoming powerless!

O ample and grand Presidentiads! Now the war, the war is over!

New history! new heroes! I project you!

Visions of poets! only you really last! sweep on! sweep on!

O heights too swift and dizzy yet!

O purged and luminous! you threaten me more than I can stand!

(I must not venture—the ground under my feet menaces me—it will not support me:

O future too immense,)—O present, I return, while yet I may, to you.