From Leaves of Grass.

=_401._= THE BROOKLYN FERRY AT TWILIGHT.

  I too, many and many a time cross’d the river, the sun half an hour
        high;
  I watched the Twelfth-month sea-gulls—­I saw them high in
        the air, floating with motionless wings, oscillating their
        bodies,
  I saw how the glistening yellow lit up parts of their bodies,
        and left the rest in strong shadow,
  I saw the slow-wheeling circles, and the gradual edging toward
        the south.

    I too saw the reflection of the summer sky in the water,
  Had my eyes dazzled by the shimmering track of beams,
  Look’d at the fine centrifugal spokes of light round the shape
        of my head, in the sun-lit water,
  Look’d on the haze on the hills southward and south-westward,
  Look’d on the vapor as it flew in fleeces tinged with violet,
  Look’d towards the lower bay to notice the arriving ships,
  Saw their approach, saw aboard those that were near me,
  Saw the white sails of schooners and sloops, saw the ships at
        anchor,
  The sailors at work in the rigging, or out astride the spars,
  The round masts, the swimming motion of the hulls, the slender
        serpentine pennants,
  The large and small steamers in motion, the pilots in their
        pilot-houses,
  The white wake left by the passage, the quick tremulous whirl
        of the wheels,
  The flags of all nations, the falling of them at sun-set,
  The scallop-edged waves in the twilight, the ladled cups, the
        frolicsome crests and glistening,
  The stretch afar growing dimmer and dimmer, the gray walls
        of the granite store-houses by the docks,
  On the river the shadowy group, the big steam-tug closely
        flank’d on each side by the barges—­the hay-boat, the
        belated lighter,
  On the neighboring shore, the fires from the foundry chimneys
        burning high and glaringly into the night. 
  Casting their flicker of black, contrasted with wild red and
        yellow light, over the tops of houses, and down into the
        clefts of streets.

  These and all else, were to me the same as they are to you;
  I project myself a moment to tell you—­also I return.

[Footnote 86:  Was born in New York in 1819, and has been printer, teacher, and later, an official at Washington.  His poetry, though irregular in form, and often coarse in sentiment, is decidedly original and vigorous.]

* * * * *

=_Amelia B. Welby, 1819-1852._= (Manual, p. 523.)

=_402._= “THE BEREAVED.”

  It is a still and lovely spot
    Where they have laid thee down to rest;
  The white rose and forget-me-not
    Bloom sweetly on thy breast,
  And birds and streams with liquid lull
  Have made the stillness beautiful.