It is ill his limbs and joints also, it is curiously in the joints of his hips and wrists,

It is in his walk, the carriage of his neck, the flex of his waist and knees — dress does not hide him,

The strong, sweet, supple quality he has, strikes through the cotton and flannel.

To see him pass conveys as much as the best poem, perhaps more,

You linger to see his back, and the back of his neck and shoulder-side.

5. The sprawl and fulness of babes, the bosoms and heads of women, the folds of their dress, their style as we pass in the street, the contour of their shape downwards,

The swimmer naked in the swimming bath, seen as he swims through the transparent green-shine, or lies with his face up, and rolls silently to and fro in the heave of the water,

The bending forward and backward of rowers in row- boats — the horseman in his saddle.

Girls, mothers, house-keepers, in all their performances.

The group of laborers seated at noon-time with their open dinner-kettles, and their wives waiting.

The female soothing a child — the farmer's daughter in the garden or cow-yard.

The young fellow hoeing corn — the sleigh-driver guiding his six horses through the crowd.

The wrestle of wrestlers, two apprentice-boys, quite grown, lusty, good-natured, native-born, out on the vacant lot at sun-down, after work,