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
daybreak I hear,
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 performers know themselves—but now I think begin
to know them.
Other works by Walt Whitman...
