Walt Whitman

Here you will find the Poem Years Of The Modern of poet 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
 (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; 10
 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
 --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? 20
 Are all nations communing? is there going to be but one heart to the
 Is humanity forming, en-masse?--for lo! tyrants tremble, crowns grow
 The earth, restive, confronts a new era, perhaps a general divine
 No one knows what will happen next--such portents fill the days and
 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
 The unperform'd, more gigantic than ever, advance, advance upon
 me. 30