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Broadway.1

[WRITTEN FOR THE HERALD.] What hurrying human tides, or day or night! What passions, winnings, losses, ardors, swim 
  thy waters!
What whirls of evil, bliss and sorrow stem, thee! What curious questioning glances—glints of 
  love!
Leer, envy, scorn, contempt, hope, aspiration! Thou portal—thou arena—thou of the myriad 
  long-drawn lines and groups!
(Could but thy flagstones, curbs, facades tell 
  their inimitable tales);
Thy windows, rich and huge hotels—thy side- 
  walks wide;
Thou of the endless sliding, mincing, shuffling 
  feet!
Thou, like the parti-colored world itself—like 
  infinite, teeming, mocking life!
Thou visor'd, vast, unspeakable show and 
  lesson!
WALT WHITMAN.

Notes

1. Reprinted in the "Sands at Seventy" annex to Leaves of Grass (1888). [back]

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