Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman

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I SEE before me now a traveling army halting,

Below a fertile valley spread, with barns and the orchards of
summer,

Behind, the terraced sides of a mountain, abrupt, in places rising
high,

Broken, with rocks, with clinging cedars, with tall shapes dingily
seen,

The numerous camp-fires scatter'd near and far, some away up on
the mountain,

The shadowy forms of men and horses, looming, large-sized,
flickering,

And over all the sky—the sky! far, far out of reach, studded,
breaking out, the eternal stars.

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