Читать книгу The Complete Works of Walt Whitman - Walt Whitman - Страница 182

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I see before me now a traveling army halting,

Below a fertile valley spread, with barns and the orchards of summer,

Behind, the terraced sides of a mountain, abrupt, in places rising high,

Broken, with rocks, with clinging cedars, with tall shapes dingily seen,

The numerous camp-fires scatter’d near and far, some away up on the

mountain,

The shadowy forms of men and horses, looming, large-sized, flickering,

And over all the sky — the sky! far, far out of reach, studded,

breaking out, the eternal stars.