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Poem by James Whitcomb Riley
O the drum! There is some Intonation in thy grum Monotony of utterance that strikes the spirit dumb, As we hear Through the clear And unclouded atmosphere, Thy palpitating syllables roll in upon the ear! There's a part Of the art Of thy music-throbbing heart That thrills a something in us that awakens with a start, And in rhyme With the chime And exactitude of time, Goes marching on to glory to thy melody sublime. And the guest Of the breast That thy rolling robs of rest Is a patriotic spirit as a Continental dressed; And he looms From the glooms Of a century of tombs, And the blood he spilled at Lexington in living beauty blooms. And his eyes Wear the guise Of a purpose pure and wise, As the love of them is lifted to a something in the skies That is bright Red and white, With a blur of starry light, As it laughs in silken ripples to the breezes day and night. There are deep Hushes creep O'er the pulses as they leap, As thy tumult, fainter growing, on the silence falls asleep, While the prayer Rising there Wills the sea and earth and air As a heritage to Freedom's sons and daughters everywhere. Then, with sound As profound As the thunderings resound, Come thy wild reverberations in a throe that shakes the ground, And a cry Flung on high, Like the flag it flutters by, Wings rapturously upward till it nestles in the sky. O the drum! There is some Intonation in thy grum Monotony of utterance that strikes the spirit dumb, As we hear Through the clear And unclouded atmosphere, Thy palpitating syllables roll in upon the ear!
James Whitcomb Riley
James Whitcomb Riley's other poems:
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