![]() | Leaves of grass. (1861-1861) | ![]() |
174.
I hear the trained soprano—she convulses me like the climax of my love-grip,The orchestra wrenches such ardors from me, I did not know I possessed them,
It throbs me to gulps of the farthest down horror,
It sails me—I dab with bare feet—they are licked by the indolent waves,
I am exposed, cut by bitter and poisoned hail,
Steeped amid honeyed morphine, my windpipe throttled in fakes of death,
61
And that we call Being.
![]() | Leaves of grass. (1861-1861) | ![]() |