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Rh The negro holds firmly the reins of his four horses
 * —the blocks swags underneath on its tied-over
 * chain,

The negro that drives the huge dray of the stone-yard
 * —steady and tall he stands, poised on one leg on
 * the string-piece,

His blue shirt exposes his ample neck and breast, and
 * loosens over his hip-band,

His glance is calm and commanding—he tosses the
 * slouch of his hat away from his forehead,

The sun falls on his crispy hair and moustache—
 * falls on the black of his polished and perfect
 * limbs.

I behold the picturesque giant and love him—and
 * I do not stop there,

I go with the team also.

In me the caresser of life wherever moving—backward
 * as well as forward slueing,

To niches aside and junior bending.

Oxen that rattle the yoke or halt in the shade! what
 * is that you express in your eyes?

It seems to me more than all the print I have read in
 * my life.

My tread scares the wood-drake and wood-duck, on
 * my distant and day-long ramble,

They rise together—they slowly circle around.

I believe in those winged purposes,
 * And acknowledge red, yellow, white, playing within me,

Rh