Song Of Myself, XII Poem by Walt Whitman

Song Of Myself, XII

Rating: 5.0


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-strew'd threshold I follow their movements,
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.

COMMENTS OF THE POEM
Dr Antony Theodore 27 June 2019

From the cinder-strew'd threshold I follow their movements, The lithe sheer of their waists plays even with their massive arms, Overhand the hammers swing, great description of Wittman. thank u. tony

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Walt Whitman

Walt Whitman

New York / United States
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