Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman

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I HEARD you, solemn-sweet pipes of the organ, as last
Sunday morn I pass'd the church;

Winds of autumn!—as I walk'd the woods at dusk, I
heard your long-stretch'd sighs, up above, so
mournful;

I heard the perfect Italian tenor, singing at the opera
—I heard the soprano in the midst of the quartet
singing;

…Heart of my love!—you too I heard, murmuring
low, through one of the wrists around my head;

Heard the pulse of you, when all was still, ringing little
bells last night under my ear.

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