A filthy Presidentiad

From Walt Whitman

What a filthy Presidentiad! (O South! Your torrid suns! O North, your arctic freezings!)

Are those really Congressmen? are those the great Judges? is that the President?

Then I will sleep awhile yet, for I see that these States sleep, for reasons:

(With gathering murk, with muttering thunder and lambent shoots we all awake,

South, North, East, West, inland and seaboard, we will surely awake.)

From “By the Roadside”