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Where the half-burned brig is riding on unknown
currents,
Where shells grow to her slimy deck—Where the
dead are corrupting below,
Where the striped and starred flag is borne at the
head of the regiments,
Approaching Manhattan, up by the long-stretching
island,
Under Niagara, the cataract falling like a veil over
my countenance,
Upon a door-step—upon the horse-block of hard
wood outside,
Upon the race-course, or enjoying picnics or jigs, or
a good game of base-ball,
At he-festivals, with blackguard gibes, ironical license,
bull-dances, drinking, laughter,
At the cider-mill, tasting the sweet of the brown
sqush, sucking the juice through a straw,
At apple-peelings, wanting kisses for all the red fruit
I find,
At musters, beach-parties, friendly bees, huskings,
house-raisings;
Where the mocking-bird sounds his delicious gurgles,
cackles, screams, weeps,
Where the hay-rick stands in the barn-yard—Where
the dry-stalks are scattered—Where the brood
cow waits in the hovel,
Where the bull advances to do his masculine work—
Where the stud to the mare—Where the cock
is treading the hen,
Where heifers browse—Where geese nip their food
with short jerks,
Where sun-down shadows lengthen over the limitless
and lonesome prairie,