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60.The beards of the young men glistened with wet, it
ran from their long hair,
Little streams passed all over their bodies.

61.An unseen hand also passed over their bodies,
It descended tremblingly from their temples and
ribs.

62.The young men float on their backs—their
white bellies bulge to the sun—they do not ask who
seizes fast to them,
They do not know who puffs and declines with
pendant and bending arch,
They do not think whom they souse with spray.

63.The butcher-boy puts off his killing-clothes, or sharpens
his knife at the stall in the market,
I loiter, enjoying his repartee and his shuffle
and break-down.

64.Blacksmiths with grimed and hairy chests environ the
anvil,
Each has his main-sledge—they are all out—there
is a great heat in the fire.

65.From the cinder-strewed threshold I follow their
movements,
The lithe sheer of their waists plays even with their
massive arms,
Overhand the hammers roll—overhand so slow—
overhand so sure,
They do not hasten—each man hits in his place.