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244 Banding the bulge of the earth winds the hot equator, Curiously north and south turn the axis-ends; Within me is the longest day—the sun wheels in
 * slanting rings—it does not set for months,

Stretched in due time within me the midnight sun
 * just rises above the horizon, and sinks again,

Within me zones, seas, cataracts, plains, volcanoes, groups, Oceanica, Australasia, Polynesia, and the great West
 * Indian islands.

What do you hear, Walt Whitman?

I hear the workman singing, and the farmer's wife
 * singing,

I hear in the distance the sounds of children, and of
 * animals early in the day,

I hear quick rifle-cracks from the riflemen of East
 * Tennessee and Kentucky, hunting on hills,

I hear emulous shouts of Australians, pursuing the
 * wild horse,

I hear the Spanish dance, with castanets, in the chestnut
 * shade, to the rebeck and guitar,

I hear continual echoes from the Thames, I hear fierce French liberty songs, I hear of the Italian boat-sculler the musical recitative
 * of old poems,

I hear the Virginia plantation chorus of negroes, of
 * a harvest night, in the glare of pine knots,

I hear the strong baritone of the 'long-shore-men of
 * Manhatta,

I hear the stevedores unlading the cargoes, and
 * singing,