 | Leaves of grass. |  |
26
164 I think I will do
nothing now but listen,
To accrue what I hear into myself — to let sounds con- tribute toward me.
165 I hear bravuras of birds, bustle of growing wheat, gossip of flames, clack of sticks cooking my meals;
I hear the sound I love, the sound of the human voice;
I hear all sounds running together, combined, fused or following;
Sounds of the city, and sounds out of the city — sounds of the day and night;
Talkative young ones to those that like them — the loud laugh of work-people at their meals;
The angry base of disjointed friendship — the faint tones of the sick;
The judge with hands tight to the desk, his pallid lips pronouncing a death-sentence;
The heave'e'yo of stevedores unlading ships by the wharves — the refrain of the anchor-lifters;
The ring of alarm-bells — the cry of fire — the whirr of swift-streaking engines and hose-carts, with premonitory tinkles, and color'd lights;
The steam-whistle — the solid roll of the train of ap- proaching cars;
The slow-march play'd at the head of the association, marching two and two;
(They go to guard some corpse — the flag-tops are draped with black muslin.)
166 I hear the violoncello,
('tis the young man's heart's
complaint;)
I hear the key'd cornet — it glides quickly in through my ears;
It shakes mad-sweet pangs through my belly and breast.
167 I hear the chorus — it is a grand opera;
Ah, this indeed is music! This suits me.
168 A tenor large and fresh as the creation fills me;
The orbic flex of his mouth is pouring and filling me full.
169 I hear the train'd soprano — (what work, with hers, is this?)
The orchestra wrenches such ardors from me, I did not know I possess'd them;
It sails me — I dab with bare feet — they are lick'd by the indolent waves;
I am exposed, cut by bitter and angry hail — I lose my breath,
Steep'd amid honey'd morphine, my windpipe throt- tled in fakes of death;
At length let up again to feel the puzzle of puzzles,
And that we call BEING.
To accrue what I hear into myself — to let sounds con- tribute toward me.
165 I hear bravuras of birds, bustle of growing wheat, gossip of flames, clack of sticks cooking my meals;
I hear the sound I love, the sound of the human voice;
I hear all sounds running together, combined, fused or following;
Sounds of the city, and sounds out of the city — sounds of the day and night;
Talkative young ones to those that like them — the loud laugh of work-people at their meals;
The angry base of disjointed friendship — the faint tones of the sick;
The judge with hands tight to the desk, his pallid lips pronouncing a death-sentence;
The heave'e'yo of stevedores unlading ships by the wharves — the refrain of the anchor-lifters;
The ring of alarm-bells — the cry of fire — the whirr of swift-streaking engines and hose-carts, with premonitory tinkles, and color'd lights;
The steam-whistle — the solid roll of the train of ap- proaching cars;
The slow-march play'd at the head of the association, marching two and two;
(They go to guard some corpse — the flag-tops are draped with black muslin.)
55
I hear the key'd cornet — it glides quickly in through my ears;
It shakes mad-sweet pangs through my belly and breast.
167 I hear the chorus — it is a grand opera;
Ah, this indeed is music! This suits me.
168 A tenor large and fresh as the creation fills me;
The orbic flex of his mouth is pouring and filling me full.
169 I hear the train'd soprano — (what work, with hers, is this?)
The orchestra wrenches such ardors from me, I did not know I possess'd them;
It sails me — I dab with bare feet — they are lick'd by the indolent waves;
I am exposed, cut by bitter and angry hail — I lose my breath,
Steep'd amid honey'd morphine, my windpipe throt- tled in fakes of death;
At length let up again to feel the puzzle of puzzles,
And that we call BEING.
| Leaves of grass. | |