But the expression of a well-made man appears not only in his face
It is in his limbs and joints also, it is curiously in the joints of his hips and wrists
It is in his walk, the carriage of his neck, the flex of his waist and knees—dress does not hide him
The strong, sweet, supple quality he has, strikes through the cotton and flannel
To see him pass conveys as much as the best poem, perhaps more
You linger to see his back, and the back of his neck and shoulder-side…
The march of firemen in their own costumes, the play of masculine muscle through clean-setting trowsers and waist-straps
The slow return from the fire, the pause when the bell strikes suddenly again, and the listening on the alert,
The natural, perfect, varied attitudes—the bent head, the curv’d neck, and the counting…
Swim with the swimmers, wrestle with wrestlers, march in line with the firemen, and pause, listen, and count.
—Walt Whitman, “I Sing the Body Electric”
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