Through the cinder-strew’d threshold we follow their motions, The lithe sheer of the waists plays despite having their massive hands, Overhand the hammers swing, overhand therefore sluggish, overhand so certain, they don’t hasten, each man strikes inside the destination.
The negro holds securely the reins of his four horses, the block swags underneath on its tied-over chain, The negro that drives the long dray associated with stone-yard, constant and high he appears pois’d on a single leg from the string-piece, their blue shirt reveals their sufficient throat and breast and loosens over their hip-band, their look is relaxed and commanding, he tosses the slouch of his cap far from their forehead, the sunlight falls on his crispy hair and mustache, falls regarding the black colored of their polish’d and perfect limbs.
Myself and for this song in me the caresser of life wherever moving, backward as well as forward sluing, To niches aside and junior bending, not a person or object missing, Absorbing all to.
Oxen that rattle the yoke and string or halt when you look at the shade that is leafy what’s that you express in your eyes?
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