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60 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.)

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.

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 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,