Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman

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MUSIC always round me, unceasing, unbeginning—
yet long untaught I did not hear,

But now the chorus I hear, and am elated,

A tenor, strong, ascending, with power and health,
with glad notes of day-break I hear,

A soprano, at intervals, sailing buoyantly over the
tops of immense waves,

A transparent base, shuddering lusciously under and
through the universe,

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The triumphant tutti—the funeral wailings, with
sweet flutes and violins—All these I fill myself
with;

I hear not the volumes of sound merely—I am
moved by the exquisite meanings,

I listen to the different voices winding in and out,
striving, contending with fiery vehemence to
excel each other in emotion,

I do not think the performers know themselves—But
now I think I begin to know them.

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