Walt Whitman (1819–92)

Spirit that form’d this scene,

These tumbled rock-piles grim and red,

These reckless heaven-ambitious peaks,

These gorges, turbulent-clear streams, this naked freshness,

These formless wild arrays, for reasons of their own,

I know thee, savage spirit — we have communed together,

Mine too such wild arrays, for reasons of their own;

Wast charged against my chants they had forgotten art?

To fuse within themselves its rules precise and delicatesse?

The lyrist’s measur’d beat, the wrought-out temple’s grace — column and polish’d arch forgot?

But thou that revelest here — spirit that form’d this scene,

They have remember’d thee.