Walt Whitman

Cavalry Crossing a Ford

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, Scarlet, and blue, and snowy white, The guidon flags flutter gaily in the wind.

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