| A line in long array, where they wind betwixt green islands; | |
| They take a serpentine course—their arms flash in the sun—Hark to the musical clank; | |
| Behold the silvery river—in it the splashing horses, loitering, stop to drink; | |
| Behold the brown-faced men—each group, each person, a picture—the negligent rest on the saddles; | |
| Some emerge on the opposite bank—others are just entering the ford—while, | 5 |
| Scarlet, and blue, and snowy white | |
| The guidon flags flutter gaily in the wind. I don't really like Whitman that much. Some of his ideas are a little juvenile. Whether it is my imagination or an easy effect of insomnia, this poem has at least one really great image to it. The idea 'what is this I don't know but it is happening anyway' is only implied. |
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