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,

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

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

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