Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman

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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.

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