Leaves of Grass

Red Jacket (From Aloft)

  Upon this scene, this show,
  Yielded to-day by fashion, learning, wealth,
  (Nor in caprice alone—some grains of deepest meaning,)
  Haply, aloft, (who knows?) from distant sky-clouds’ blended shapes,
  As some old tree, or rock or cliff, thrill’d with its soul,
  Product of Nature’s sun, stars, earth direct—a towering human form,
  In hunting-shirt of film, arm’d with the rifle, a half-ironical
      smile curving its phantom lips,
  Like one of Ossian’s ghosts looks down.