26
164
I think I will do nothing now but listen,
To accrue what I hear into myself—to let sounds contribute 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 approaching 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 whirls me wider than Uranus flies;
It 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 throttled in fakes of death;
At length let up again to feel the puzzle of puzzles,
And that we call Being.
