To Whitman

I’m sitting on Descarte’s
Rock. A few fleeting impressions strike
My being like ringing bells.
Where is this music that flows
From celestial spheres? Sometimes a burden
Is transformed into the cool ardor
Of water; streams flowing down across
The splitting paths of rock: among the trees
Nothing is lost; the green arbor
Of boughs is like a thousand limbs,
A thousand hands, each by chime extending
The little tinkle of luminous
Silver – a thousand keys are pulsing
In my soul.