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The ring of alarm-bells—the cry of fire—the whirr
of swift-streaking engines and hose-carts, with
premonitory tinkles, and colored lights,
The steam-whistle—the solid roll of the train of
approaching cars,
The slow-march played at night at the head of the
association, marching two and two,
(They go to guard some corpse—the flag-tops are
draped with black muslin.)

171.I hear the violoncello, or man's heart's complaint;
I hear the keyed cornet—it glides quickly in through
my ears,
It shakes mad-sweet pangs through my belly and
breast.

172.I hear the chorus—it is a grand-opera,
Ah, this indeed is music! This suits me.

173.A tenor large and fresh as the creation fills me,
The orbic flex of his mouth is pouring and filling
me full.

174.I hear the trained soprano—she convulses me like
the climax of my love-grip,
The orchestra wrenches such ardors from me, I did
not know I possessed them,
It throbs me to gulps of the farthest down horror,
It sails me—I dab with bare feet—they are licked
by the indolent waves,
I am exposed, cut by bitter and poisoned hail,
Steeped amid honeyed morphine, my windpipe throttled
in fakes of death,