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Rh What living and buried speech is always vibrating
 * here—what howls restrained by decorum,

Arrests of criminals, slights, adulterous offers made,
 * acceptances, rejections with convex lips,

I mind them or the show or resonance of them—I
 * come and I depart.

The big doors of the country-barn stand open and
 * ready,

The dried grass of the harvest-time loads the slow-
 * drawn wagon,

The clear light plays on the brown gray and green
 * intertinged,

The armfuls are packed to the sagging mow.

I am there—I help—I came stretched atop of the
 * load,

I felt its soft jolts—one leg reclined on the other; I jump from the cross-beams and seize the clover and
 * timothy,

And roll head over heels, and tangle my hair full of
 * wisps.

Alone, far in the wilds and mountains, I hunt, Wandering, amazed at my own lightness and glee, In the late afternoon choosing a safe spot to pass the
 * night,

Kindling a fire and broiling the fresh-killed game, Soundly falling asleep on the gathered leaves, with
 * my dog and gun by my side.

The Yankee clipper is under her three sky-sails—
 * she cuts the sparkle and scud,