Election Day, November, 1884
by Walt
Whitman
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.