notes, Electric, pensive, turbulent, artificial, (Yet strangely fitting even here, meanings unknown before, Subtler than ever, more harmony, as if born here, related here, Not to the city’s fresco’d rooms, not to the audience of the opera house, Sounds, echoes, wandering strains, as really here at home, Sonnambula’s innocent love, trios with Norma’s anguish, And thy ecstatic chorus Poliuto ;) Ray’d in the limpid yellow slanting sundown, Music, Italian music in Dakota.
While Nature, sovereign of this gnarl’d realm, Lurking in hidden barbaric grim recesses, Acknowledging rapport however far remov’d, (As some old root or soil of earth its last-born flower or fruit,) Listens well pleas’d.
With All Thy Gifts
With all thy gifts America, Standing secure, rapidly tending, overlooking the world, Power, wealth, extent, vouchsafed to thee—with these and like of these vouchsafed to thee, What if one gift thou lackest? (the ultimate human problem never solving,) The gift of perfect women fit for thee—what if that gift of gifts thou lackest? The towering feminine of thee? the beauty, health, completion, fit for thee? The mothers fit for thee?
My Picture-Gallery
In a little house keep I pictures suspended, it is not a fix’d house, It is round, it is only a few inches from one side to the other; Yet behold, it has room for all the shows of the world, all memories! Here the tableaus of life, and here the groupings of death; Here, do you know this? this is cicerone himself, With finger rais’d he points to the prodigal pictures.