Election Day, November, 1884

Walt Whitman (1819–1892) · Leaves of Grass · Sands at Seventy · 1888

If I should need to name, O Western World, your powerfulest scene and show,
’Twould not be you, Niagara⁠—nor you, ye limitless prairies⁠—nor your huge rifts of canyons, Colorado,
Nor you, Yosemite⁠—nor Yellowstone, with all its spasmic geyser-loops ascending to the skies, appearing and disappearing,
Nor Oregon’s white cones⁠—nor Huron’s belt of mighty lakes⁠—nor Mississippi’s stream:
—This seething hemisphere’s humanity, as now, I’d name⁠—the still small voice vibrating⁠—America’s choosing day,
(The heart of it not in the chosen⁠—the act itself the main, the quadrennial choosing,)
The stretch of North and South arous’d⁠—sea-board and inland⁠—Texas to Maine⁠—the Prairie States⁠—Vermont, Virginia, California,
The final ballot-shower from East to West⁠—the paradox and conflict,
The countless snow-flakes falling⁠—(a swordless conflict,
Yet more than all Rome’s wars of old, or modern Napoleon’s:) the peaceful choice of all,
Or good or ill humanity⁠—welcoming the darker odds, the dross:
—Foams and ferments the wine? it serves to purify⁠—while the heart pants, life glows:
These stormy gusts and winds waft precious ships,
Swell’d Washington’s, Jefferson’s, Lincoln’s sails.