The Visitor
Suddenly the other side of this world wide,Whose proud extent even conquering Steam allowed,Grew near as the garden-gate; no mountain then,No rosy-torturing desert, no dead lake,Nor jungle, whirlpool, jealous frontier stopped us.We moved within the wings of some ten wordsInto a most familiar country air,And like spring showers received it from the hillsThat stood from our old hills ten thousand miles—Or none; we paused along the yellow plains,And kissed the child that ran from shyer friendsTo take our hand; and we could tell what passedIn unknown language between old pouchy boatmenAmong the huge bullrushes where for everDwells the uncaptured serpent six yards long,Whom the small fish warping the waters' brimDecline to notice. Then came orange-orchards,Rising above the sea-cliff's bridle-roads;And azure-flaming waves around rock-cavesWhence the pine thrust its elbows; then the dirgeOf sunless streams down cold black buttressesOf vaster porticoes hurled up at heaven;
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