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Walt Whitman - Years of the Modern.

YEARS of the modern! years of the unperform’d! 
Your horizon rises—I see it parting away for more august dramas; 
I see not America only—I see not only Liberty’s nation, but other nations
    preparing; 
I see tremendous entrances and exits—I see new combinations—I see the solidarity
    of
	races; 
I see that force advancing with irresistible power on the world’s stage;
(Have the old forces, the old wars, played their parts? are the acts suitable to them
    closed?) 
I see Freedom, completely arm’d, and victorious, and very haughty, with Law on one
    side,
	and Peace on the other, 
A stupendous Trio, all issuing forth against the idea of caste; 
—What historic denouements are these we so rapidly approach? 
I see men marching and countermarching by swift millions;
I see the frontiers and boundaries of the old aristocracies broken; 
I see the landmarks of European kings removed; 
I see this day the People beginning their landmarks, (all others give way;) 
—Never were such sharp questions ask’d as this day; 
Never was average man, his soul, more energetic, more like a God;
Lo! how he urges and urges, leaving the masses no rest; 
His daring foot is on land and sea everywhere—he colonizes the Pacific, the
    archipelagoes;
	
With the steam-ship, the electric telegraph, the newspaper, the wholesale engines of war, 
With these, and the world-spreading factories, he interlinks all geography, all lands; 
—What whispers are these, O lands, running ahead of you, passing under the seas?
Are all nations communing? is there going to be but one heart to the globe? 
Is humanity forming, en-masse?—for lo! tyrants tremble, crowns grow dim; 
The earth, restive, confronts a new era, perhaps a general divine war; 
No one knows what will happen next—such portents fill the days and nights; 
Years prophetical! the space ahead as I walk, as I vainly try to pierce it, is full of
	phantoms;
Unborn deeds, things soon to be, project their shapes around me; 
This incredible rush and heat—this strange extatic fever of dreams, O years! 
Your dreams, O year, how they penetrate through me! (I know not whether I sleep or wake!) 
The perform’d America and Europe grow dim, retiring in shadow behind me, 
The unperform’d, more gigantic than ever, advance, advance upon me.

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Added: Feb 7 2004 | Viewed: 7928 times | Comments and analysis of Years of the Modern. by Walt Whitman Comments (2)

Years of the Modern. - Comments and Information

Poet: Walt Whitman
Poem: 2. Years of the Modern.
Volume: Leaves of Grass
- 15. Songs of Parting
Year: Published/Written in 1900

Comment 2 of 2, added on July 29th, 2011 at 12:07 PM.
XZootYNFTJAgwVF

Real brain power on dsilpay. Thanks for that answer!

Tangie from Croatia
Comment 1 of 2, added on September 29th, 2005 at 10:08 PM.

breathtaking

RAchel from United Kingdom

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