The skies deepened into purple, and the march of the stars began: it was the sacredest hour of the day to Whitman, a period consecrated and set apart above all. "I am convinced," thought he, "that there are hours of Nature, especially of the atmosphere, mornings and evenings, addressed to the soul. Night transcends, for that purpose, what the proudest day can do." (_Specimen Days._) And a new buoyancy quickened in his soul; the indomitable spirit of enterprise revived within him. Now, at eleven at night, he was more exhilarated in mind than his body had been in the blue July morning: and, casting one comprehensive glance upon the burning arcana of the heavens, that he might carry into his sleep a memory of that glory, he "desired a better country," with longing and deep solicitude. Bathe me, O God, in Thee, mounting to Thee, I and my soul to range in range of Thee! * * * * * Passage to more than India! O secret of the earth and sky! Of you, O waters of the sea! O winding creeks and rivers! Of you, O woods and fields! Of you, strong mountains of my land! Of you, O prairies! Of you, gray rocks! O morning red! O clouds! O rain and snows! O day and night, passage to you! O sun and moon, and all you stars! Sirius and Jupiter! Passage to you!... O my brave soul! O farther, farther sail! O daring joy, but safe! Are they not all the seas of God? O farther, farther, farther sail! (_Passage to India_.) _Printed by Percy Lund, Humphries & Co. Ltd.,_ _Bradford and London._ End of Project Gutenberg's A Day with Walt Whitman, by Maurice Clare