THROUGH the soft evening air enwrinding all, <br /> Rocks, woods, fort, cannon, pacing sentries, endless wilds, <br /> In dulcet streams, in flutes' and cornets' notes, <br /> Electric, pensive, turbulent artificial, <br /> (Yet strangely fitting even here, meanings unknown before, <br /> Subtler than ever, more harmony, as if born here, related here, <br /> Not to the city's fresco'd rooms, not to the audience of the opera <br /> house, <br /> Sounds, echoes, wandering strains, as really here at home, <br /> Sonnambula's innocent love, trios with Norma's anguish, <br /> And thy ecstatic chorus Poliuto;) 10 <br /> Ray'd in the limpid yellow slanting sundown, <br /> Music, Italian music in Dakota. <br /> <br /> While Nature, sovereign of this gnarl'd realm, <br /> Lurking in hidden barbaric grim recesses, <br /> Acknowledging rapport however far remov'd, <br /> (As some old root or soil of earth its last-born flower or fruit,) <br /> Listens well pleas'd.<br /><br />Walt Whitman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/italian-music-in-dakota/
