Walt Whitman

Leaves of Grass. 34. Sands at Seventy. Fancies at Navesink. 6. Proudly the Flood Comes In

Proudly the flood comes in, shouting, foaming, advancing,
Long it holds at the high, with bosom broad outswelling,
All throbs, dilates—the farms, woods, streets of cities—workmen at work,
Mainsails, topsails, jibs, appear in the offing—steamers' pennants
      of smoke—and under the forenoon sun,
Freighted with human lives, gaily the outward bound, gaily the
      inward bound,
Flaunting from many a spar the flag I love.