Old Age’s Lambent Peaks by Walt Whitman

The touch of flame⁠—the illuminating fire⁠—the loftiest look at last, O’er city, passion, sea⁠—o’er prairie, mountain, wood⁠—the earth itself; The airy, different, changing hues of all, in falling twilight, Objects and groups, bearings, faces, reminiscences; The calmer sight⁠—the golden setting, clear and broad: So much i’ the atmosphere, the points of view, the situations whence we scan, Bro’t out by them alone⁠—so much (perhaps the best) unreck’d before; The lights indeed from them⁠—old age’s lambent peaks.