Walt Whitman(1819–1892) · Leaves of Grass · Sands at Seventy · 1891
The touch of flame—the illuminating fire—the loftiest look at last, O’er city, passion, sea—o’er prairie, mountain, wood—the earth itself; The airy, different, changing hues of all, in falling twilight, Objects and groups, bearings, faces, reminiscences; The calmer sight—the golden setting, clear and broad: So much i’ the atmosphere, the points of view, the situations whence we scan, Bro’t out by them alone—so much (perhaps the best) unreck’d before; The lights indeed from them—old age’s lambent peaks.