Song of Myself

Now I will do nothing but listen,

To accrue what I hear into this song, to let sounds contribute

toward it.

I hear bravuras of birds, bustle of growing wheat, gossip of

flames, clack of sticks cooking my meals.

I hear the sound I love, the sound of the human voice,

I hear all sounds running together, combined, fused or

following,

Sounds of the city and sounds out of the city, sounds of the

day and night,

Talkative young ones to those that like them, the loud laugh

of work-people at their meals,

The angry base of disjointed friendship, the faint tones of the

sick,

The judge with hands tight to the desk, his pallid lips

pronouncing a death-sentence,

The heave'e'yo of stevedores unlading ships by the wharves,

the refrain of the anchor-lifters,

The ring of alarm-bells, the cry of fire, the whirr of

swift-streaking engines and hose-carts with premonitory

tinkles and color'd lights,

The steam-whistle, the solid roll of the train of approaching

cars,

The slow march play'd at the head of the association marching

two and two,

(They go to guard some corpse, the flag-tops are draped with

black muslin.)

I hear the violoncello, ('tis the young man's heart's complaint,)

I hear the key'd cornet, it glides quickly in through my ears,

It shakes mad-sweet pangs through my belly and breast.

I hear the chorus, it is a grand opera,

Ah this indeed is music — this suits me.

A tenor large and fresh as the creation fills me,

The orbic flex of his mouth is pouring and filling me full.

I hear the train'd soprano (what work with hers is this?)

The orchestra whirls me wider than Uranus flies,

It wrenches such ardors from me I did not know I possess'd

them,

It sails me, I dab with bare feet, they are lick'd by the indolent

waves,

I am cut by bitter and angry hail, I lose my breath,

Steep'd amid honey'd morphine, my windpipe throttled in

fakes of death,

At length let up again to feel the puzzle of puzzles,

And that we call Being.