Sunday Poem-Walt Whitman

Sounds Of The Winter

Sounds of the winter too,
Sunshine upon the mountains—many a distant strain
From cheery railroad train—from nearer field, barn, house
The whispering air—even the mute crops, garner’d apples, corn,
Children’s and women’s tones—rhythm of many a farmer and of
flail,
And old man’s garrulous lips among the rest, Think not we give
out yet,
Forth from these snowy hairs we keep up yet the lilt.

-Walt Whitman

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