by Walt Whitman (1819 - 1892)
Years of the modern
Language: English
Years of the modern! years of the unperform'd!
Your horizon rises -- I see it parting away for more august dramas;
I see not America only -- I see not only Liberty's nation,
but other nations preparing;
I see tremendous entrances and exits -- I see new combinations --
I see the solidarity of races;
I see that force advancing with irresistible power on the world's stage;
(Have the old forces, the old wars, played their parts?
are the acts suitable to them closed?)
I see Freedom, completely arm'd, and victorious,
and very haughty, with Law on one side, and Peace on the other,
A stupendous Trio, all issuing forth against the idea of caste;
-- What historic denouements are these we so rapidly approach?
I see men marching and countermarching by swift millions;
I see the frontiers and boundaries of the old aristocracies broken;
I see the landmarks of European kings removed;
I see this day the People beginning their landmarks, (all others give way;)
-- Never were such sharp questions ask'd as this day;
Never was average man, his soul, more energetic, more like a God;
Lo! how he urges and urges, leaving the masses no rest;
His daring foot is on land and sea everywhere --
he colonizes the Pacific, the archipelagoes;
With the steam-ship, the electric telegraph, the newspaper,
the wholesale engines of war,
With these, and the world-spreading factories, he interlinks all geography, all lands;
-- What whispers are these, O lands, running ahead of you, passing under the seas?
Are all nations communing? is there going to be but one heart to the globe?
Is humanity forming, en-masse? -- for lo! tyrants tremble, crowns grow dim;
The earth, restive, confronts a new era, perhaps a general divine war;
No one knows what will happen next -- such portents fill the days and nights;
Years prophetical! the space ahead as I walk,
as I vainly try to pierce it, is full of phantoms;
Unborn deeds, things soon to be, project their shapes around me;
This incredible rush and heat -- this strange extatic fever of dreams, O years!
Your dreams, O year, how they penetrate through me! (I know not whether I sleep or wake!)
The perform'd America and Europe grow dim, retiring in shadow behind me,
The unperform'd, more gigantic than ever, advance, advance upon me.
Text Authorship:
- by Walt Whitman (1819 - 1892), "Years of the modern" [author's text not yet checked against a primary source]
Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive):
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Settings in other languages, adaptations, or excerpts:
- Also set in English, adapted by Norman Dello Joio (1913 - 2008) [an adaptation] ; composed by Norman Dello Joio.
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Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]
This text was added to the website: 2008-07-31
Line count: 37
Word count: 381