Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman

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THAT 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,

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

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

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 peformers know themselves—but
now I think I begin to know them.

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