"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, / At length let up again to feel the puzzle of puzzles, / And that we call BEING."

Walt Whitman - Leaves of Grass