Washington’s Monument, February, 1885 by Walt Whitman

Ah, not this marble, dead and cold: Far from its base and shaft expanding⁠—the round zones circling, comprehending, Thou, Washington, art all the world’s, the continents’ entire⁠—not yours alone, America, Europe’s as well, in every part, castle of lord or laborer’s cot, Or frozen North, or sultry South⁠—the African’s⁠—the Arab’s in his tent, Old Asia’s there with venerable smile, seated amid her ruins; (Greets the antique the hero new? ’tis but the same⁠—the heir legitimate, continued ever, The indomitable heart and arm⁠—proofs of the never-broken line, Courage, alertness, patience, faith, the same⁠—e’en in defeat defeated not, the same:) Wherever sails a ship, or house is built on land, or day or night, Through teeming cities’ streets, indoors or out, factories or farms, Now, or to come, or past⁠—where patriot wills existed or exist, Wherever Freedom, pois’d by Toleration, sway’d by Law, Stands or is rising thy true monument.