Читать книгу Complete Works - Walt Whitman - Страница 63

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I heard you solemn-sweet pipes of the organ as last Sunday morn I

pass’d the church,

Winds of autumn, as I walk’d the woods at dusk I heard your long-

stretch’d sighs up above so mournful,

I heard the perfect Italian tenor singing at the opera, I heard the

soprano in the midst of the quartet singing;

Heart of my love! you too I heard murmuring low through one of the

wrists around my head,

Heard the pulse of you when all was still ringing little bells last

night under my ear.