Page:Leaves of Grass (1860).djvu/300

292 It is in his limbs and joints also, it is curiously in the
 * joints of his hips and wrists,

It is in his walk, the carriage of his neck, the flex
 * of his waist and knees—dress does not hide
 * him,

The strong, sweet, supple quality he has, strikes
 * through the cotton and flannel,

To see him pass conveys as much as the best poem,
 * perhaps more,

You linger to see his back, and the back of his neck
 * and shoulder-side.

The sprawl and fulness of babes, the bosoms and
 * heads of women, the folds of their dress, their
 * style as we pass in the street, the contour of their
 * shape downwards,

The swimmer naked in the swimming bath, seen as
 * he swims through the transparent green-shine, or
 * lies with his face up, and rolls silently to and fro
 * in the heave of the water,

The bending forward and backward of rowers in rowboats
 * —the horseman in his saddle,

Girls, mothers, house-keepers, in all their performances, The group of laborers seated at noon-time with their
 * open dinner-kettles, and their wives waiting,

The female soothing a child—the farmer's daughter
 * in the garden or cow-yard,

The young fellow hoeing corn—the sleigh-driver
 * guiding his six horses through the crowd,

The wrestle of wrestlers, two apprentice-boys, quite
 * grown, lusty, good-natured, native-born, out on
 * the vacant lot at sun-down, after work,