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Poem by Walt Whitman Leaves of Grass. 21. Drum-Taps. 12. An Army Corps on the March With its cloud of skirmishers in advance, With now the sound of a single shot snapping like a whip, and now an irregular volley, The swarming ranks press on and on, the dense brigades press on, Glittering dimly, toiling under the sun—the dust-cover'd men, In columns rise and fall to the undulations of the ground, With artillery interspers'd—the wheels rumble, the horses sweat, As the army corps advances. Walt Whitman Walt Whitman's other poems:
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