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Of how many hold despairingly yet to the models
departed, caste, myths, obedience, compulsion,
and to infidelity;
How few see the arrived models, the Athletes, The
States—or see freedom or spirituality—or hold
any faith in results,
(But I see the Athletes—and I see the results
glorious and inevitable—and they again leading
to other results;)
How the great cities appear—How the Democratic
masses, turbulent, wilful, as I love them,
How the whirl, the contest, the wrestle of evil with
good, the sounding and resounding, keep on
and on;
How society waits unformed, and is between things
ended and things begun;
How America is the continent of glories, and of the
triumph of freedom, and of the Democracies, and
of the fruits of society, and of all that is begun;
And how The States are complete in themselves—
And how all triumphs and glories are complete
in themselves, to lead onward,
And how these of mine, and of The States, will in
their turn be convulsed, and serve other parturitions
and transitions,
And how all people, sights, combinations, the Democratic
masses too, serve—and how every fact
serves,
And how now, or at any time, each serves the
exquisite transition of Death.