Friday, January 14, 2011

Waiting for Yoga.

Where the she-whale swims with her calf and never forsakes it, 
Where the steam-ship trails hind-ways its long pennant of smoke, 
Where the fin of the shark cuts like a black chip out of the water, 

Where the half-burn'd brig is riding on unknown currents, 
Where shells grow to her slimy deck, where the dead are corrupting below; 
Where the dense-starr'd 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 
At he-festivals, with blackguard gibes, ironical license, 
bull-dances, drinking, laughter, 

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