An Army Corps on the March

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by Walt Whitman.

  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.


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