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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=535106" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Proud Music Of The Storm</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">PROUD music of the storm!<br> Blast that careers so free, whistling across the prairies!<br> Strong hum of forest tree-tops! Wind of the mountains!<br> Personified dim shapes! you hidden orchestras!<br> You serenades of phantoms, with instruments alert,<br> Blending, with Nature's rhythmus, all the tongues of nations;<br> You chords left us by vast composers! you choruses!<br> You formless, free, religious dances! you from the Orient!<br> You undertone of rivers, roar of pouring cataracts;<br> You sounds from distant guns, with galloping cavalry! 10<br> Echoes of camps, with all the different bugle-calls!<br> Trooping tumultuous, filling the midnight late, bending me powerless,<br> Entering my lonesome slumber-chamber--Why have you seiz'd me?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> Come forward, O my Soul, and let the rest retire;<br> Listen--lose not--it is toward thee they tend;<br> Parting the midnight, entering my slumber-chamber,<br> For thee they sing and dance, O Soul.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> A festival song!<br> The duet of the bridegroom and the bride--a marriage-march,<br> With lips of love, and hearts of lovers, fill'd to the brim with<br> love;    20<br> The red-flush'd cheeks, and perfumes--the cortege swarming, full of<br> friendly faces, young and old,<br> To flutes' clear notes, and sounding harps' cantabile.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> Now loud approaching drums!<br> Victoria! see'st thou in powder-smoke the banners torn but flying?<br> the rout of the baffled?<br> Hearest those shouts of a conquering army?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> (Ah, Soul, the sobs of women--the wounded groaning in agony,<br> The hiss and crackle of flames--the blacken'd ruins--the embers of<br> cities,<br> The dirge and desolation of mankind.)</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> Now airs antique and medieval fill me!<br> I see and hear old harpers with their harps, at Welsh festivals: 30<br> I hear the minnesingers, singing their lays of love,<br> I hear the minstrels, gleemen, troubadours, of the feudal ages.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> Now the great organ sounds,<br> Tremulous--while underneath, (as the hid footholds of the earth,<br> On which arising, rest, and leaping forth, depend,<br> All shapes of beauty, grace and strength--all hues we know,<br> Green blades of grass, and warbling birds--children that gambol and<br> play--the clouds of heaven above,)<br> The strong base stands, and its pulsations intermits not,<br> Bathing, supporting, merging all the rest--maternity of all the rest;<br> And with it every instrument in multitudes,  40<br> The players playing--all the world's musicians,<br> The solemn hymns and masses, rousing adoration,<br> All passionate heart-chants, sorrowful appeals,<br> The measureless sweet vocalists of ages,<br> And for their solvent setting, Earth's own diapason,<br> Of winds and woods and mighty ocean waves;<br> A new composite orchestra--binder of years and climes--ten-fold<br> renewer,<br> As of the far-back days the poets tell--the Paradiso,<br> The straying thence, the separation long, but now the wandering done,<br> The journey done, the Journeyman come home,  50<br> And Man and Art, with Nature fused again.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> Tutti! for Earth and Heaven!<br> The Almighty Leader now for me, for once has signal'd with his wand.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> The manly strophe of the husbands of the world,<br> And all the wives responding.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> The tongues of violins!<br> (I think, O tongues, ye tell this heart, that cannot tell itself;<br> This brooding, yearning heart, that cannot tell itself.)</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> Ah, from a little child,<br> Thou knowest, Soul, how to me all sounds became music; 60<br> My mother's voice, in lullaby or hymn;<br> (The voice--O tender voices--memory's loving voices!<br> Last miracle of all--O dearest mother's, sister's, voices;)<br> The rain, the growing corn, the breeze among the long-leav'd corn,<br> The measur'd sea-surf, beating on the sand,<br> The twittering bird, the hawk's sharp scream,<br> The wild-fowl's notes at night, as flying low, migrating north or<br> south,<br> The psalm in the country church, or mid the clustering trees, the<br> open air camp-meeting,<br> The fiddler in the tavern--the glee, the long-strung sailor-song,<br> The lowing cattle, bleating sheep--the crowing cock at dawn. 70</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> All songs of current lands come sounding 'round me,<br> The German airs of friendship, wine and love,<br> Irish ballads, merry jigs and dances--English warbles,<br> Chansons of France, Scotch tunes--and o'er the rest,<br> Italia's peerless compositions.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Across the stage, with pallor on her face, yet lurid passion,<br> Stalks Norma, brandishing the dagger in her hand.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> I see poor crazed Lucia's eyes' unnatural gleam;<br> Her hair down her back falls loose and dishevell'd.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> I see where Ernani, walking the bridal garden,  80<br> Amid the scent of night-roses, radiant, holding his bride by the<br> hand,<br> Hears the infernal call, the death-pledge of the horn.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> To crossing swords, and grey hairs bared to heaven,<br> The clear, electric base and baritone of the world,<br> The trombone duo--Libertad forever!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> From Spanish chestnut trees' dense shade,<br> By old and heavy convent walls, a wailing song,<br> Song of lost love--the torch of youth and life quench'd in despair,<br> Song of the dying swan--Fernando's heart is breaking.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Awaking from her woes at last, retriev'd Amina sings; 90<br> Copious as stars, and glad as morning light, the torrents of her joy.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> (The teeming lady comes!<br> The lustrious orb--Venus contralto--the blooming mother,<br> Sister of loftiest gods--Alboni's self I hear.)</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> I hear those odes, symphonies, operas;<br> I hear in the William Tell, the music of an arous'd and angry people;<br> I hear Meyerbeer's Huguenots, the Prophet, or Robert;<br> Gounod's Faust, or Mozart's Don Juan.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> I hear the dance-music of all nations,<br> The waltz, (some delicious measure, lapsing, bathing me in<br> bliss;)    100<br> The bolero, to tinkling guitars and clattering castanets.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> I see religious dances old and new,<br> I hear the sound of the Hebrew lyre,<br> I see the Crusaders marching, bearing the cross on high, to the<br> martial clang of cymbals;<br> I hear dervishes monotonously chanting, interspers'd with frantic<br> shouts, as they spin around, turning always towards Mecca;<br> I see the rapt religious dances of the Persians and the Arabs;<br> Again, at Eleusis, home of Ceres, I see the modern Greeks dancing,<br> I hear them clapping their hands, as they bend their bodies,<br> I hear the metrical shuffling of their feet.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> I see again the wild old Corybantian dance, the performers wounding<br> each other;    110<br> I see the Roman youth, to the shrill sound of flageolets, throwing<br> and catching their weapons,<br> As they fall on their knees, and rise again.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> I hear from the Mussulman mosque the muezzin calling;<br> I see the worshippers within, (nor form, nor sermon, argument, nor<br> word,<br> But silent, strange, devout--rais'd, glowing heads--extatic faces.)</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> I hear the Egyptian harp of many strings,<br> The primitive chants of the Nile boatmen;<br> The sacred imperial hymns of China,<br> To the delicate sounds of the king, (the stricken wood and stone;)<br> Or to Hindu flutes, and the fretting twang of the vina, 120<br> A band of bayaderes.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> Now Asia, Africa leave me--Europe, seizing, inflates me;<br> To organs huge, and bands, I hear as from vast concourses of voices,<br> Luther's strong hymn, Eine feste Burg ist unser Gott;<br> Rossini's Stabat Mater dolorosa;<br> Or, floating in some high cathedral dim, with gorgeous color'd<br> windows,<br> The passionate Agnus Dei, or Gloria in Excelsis.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> Composers! mighty maestros!<br> And you, sweet singers of old lands--Soprani! Tenori! Bassi!<br> To you a new bard, carolling free in the west,<br> Obeisant, sends his love.   130</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> (Such led to thee, O Soul!<br> All senses, shows and objects, lead to thee,<br> But now, it seems to me, sound leads o'er all the rest.)</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> I hear the annual singing of the children in St. Paul's Cathedral;<br> Or, under the high roof of some colossal hall, the symphonies,<br> oratorios of Beethoven, Handel, or Haydn;<br> The Creation, in billows of godhood laves me.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Give me to hold all sounds, (I, madly struggling, cry,)<br> Fill me with all the voices of the universe,<br> Endow me with their throbbings--Nature's also,<br> The tempests, waters, winds--operas and chants--marches and<br> dances,    140<br> Utter--pour in--for I would take them all.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> Then I woke softly,<br> And pausing, questioning awhile the music of my dream,<br> And questioning all those reminiscences--the tempest in its fury,<br> And all the songs of sopranos and tenors,<br> And those rapt oriental dances, of religious fervor,<br> And the sweet varied instruments, and the diapason of organs,<br> And all the artless plaints of love, and grief and death,<br> I said to my silent, curious Soul, out of the bed of the slumber-<br> chamber,<br> Come, for I have found the clue I sought so long,  150<br> Let us go forth refresh'd amid the day,<br> Cheerfully tallying life, walking the world, the real,<br> Nourish'd henceforth by our celestial dream.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> And I said, moreover,<br> Haply, what thou hast heard, O Soul, was not the sound of winds,<br> Nor dream of raging storm, nor sea-hawk's flapping wings, nor harsh<br> scream,<br> Nor vocalism of sun-bright Italy,<br> Nor German organ majestic--nor vast concourse of voices--nor layers<br> of harmonies;<br> Nor strophes of husbands and wives--nor sound of marching soldiers,<br> Nor flutes, nor harps, nor the bugle-calls of camps; 160<br> But, to a new rhythmus fitted for thee,<br> Poems, bridging the way from Life to Death, vaguely wafted in night<br> air, uncaught, unwritten,<br> Which, let us go forth in the bold day, and write.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Walt+Whitman">Walt Whitman</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=535106" data-title="Proud Music Of The Storm de Walt Whitman" data-description="PROUD music of the storm!
 Blast that careers so free, whistling across the prairies!
 Strong hum of forest tree-tops! Wind of the mountains!
 Personified dim shapes! you hidden orchestras!
 You serenades of phantoms, with instruments alert,
 Blen..."></div>
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