Cavalry Crossing A Ford By Walt Whitman

A line in long array, where they wind betwixt green islands;
They take a serpentine course–their arms flash in the sun–Hark to the musical clank;
Behold the silvery river–in it the splashing horses, loitering, stop to drink;
Behold the brown-faced men–each group, each person, a picture–the negligent rest on the saddles;
Some emerge on the opposite bank–others are just entering the ford–while,
Scarlet, and blue, and snowy white,
The guidon flags flutter gaily in the wind.