Poetry Friday

Now that I’m back in the city, my heart is aching for the wide open spaces, red dirt paths, and unending skies of Southern Colorado.  In the honor of that country which has worked its spell on me:

Spirit That Form’d This Scene by Walt Whitman

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;

Was't 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.



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