The lithe sheer of their waists plays even with their massive arms, Overhand the hammers swing, overhand so slow, overhand so sure, They do not hasten, each man hits in his place from the cinder-strew’d threshold I follow their movements.
The negro holds securely the reins of their four horses, the block swags underneath on its tied-over chain, The negro that drives the dray that is long of stone-yard, steady and high he appears pois’d on one leg on the string-piece, their blue top reveals their sufficient throat and breast and loosens over their hip-band, their look is calm and commanding, he tosses the slouch of their cap far from their forehead, the sunlight falls on their crispy hair and mustache, falls from the black colored of their polish’d and perfect limbs.
I behold the picturesque giant and love him, and I also usually do not hold on there, We opt for the group additionally.
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. Continue reading