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36 The beards of the young men glistened with wet, it
 * ran from their long hair,

Little streams passed all over their bodies.

An unseen hand also passed over their bodies, It descended tremblingly from their temples and
 * ribs.

The young men float on their backs—their
 * white bellies bulge to the sun—they do not ask who
 * seizes fast to them,

They do not know who puffs and declines with
 * pendant and bending arch,

They do not think whom they souse with spray.

The butcher-boy puts off his killing-clothes, or sharpens
 * his knife at the stall in the market,

I loiter, enjoying his repartee and his shuffle
 * and break-down.

Blacksmiths with grimed and hairy chests environ the
 * anvil,

Each has his main-sledge—they are all out—there
 * is a great heat in the fire.

From the cinder-strewed threshold I follow their
 * movements,

The lithe sheer of their waists plays even with their
 * massive arms,

Overhand the hammers roll—overhand so slow—
 * overhand so sure,

They do not hasten—each man hits in his place.