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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22.
Passing stranger! you do not know how longingly I
look upon you,
You must be he I was seeking, or she I was seeking,
(It comes to me, as of a dream,)
I have somewhere surely lived a life of joy with
you,
All is recalled as we flit by each other, fluid, affectionate,
chaste, matured.
You grew up with me, were a boy with me, or a girl
with me,
I ate with you, and slept with you—your body has
become not yours only, nor left my body mine
only,
You give me the pleasure of your eyes, face, flesh, as
we pass—you take of my beard, breast, hands,
in return,
I am not to speak to you—I am to think of you
when I sit alone, or wake at night alone,
