Leaves of Grass

Old Age’s Lambent Peaks

  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 failing 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.