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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.

by Walt Whitman
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