Sixth String Quartet (A Whitman Serenade)

Darest thou now O Soul,
Walk out with me toward the Unknown Region,
Where neither ground is for the feet
   nor any path to follow?

No map there, nor guide,
Nor voice sounding, nor touch of human hand,
Nor face with blooming flesh,
   nor lips, nor eyes, are in that land.

I know it not O Soul;
Nor dost thou -- all is a blank before us;
All waits, undream'd of, in that region,
   [that inaccessible land]1.

Till when the [ties loosen]2,
All but the ties eternal, Time and Space,
Nor darkness, gravitation, sense,
   nor any bounds, [bound]3 us.

Then we burst forth -- we float,
In Time and Space, O Soul, prepared for them;
Equal, equipt at last, -- 
   (O joy! O fruit of all!) them to fulfil, O Soul.

Quicksand years that whirl me I know not whither,
Your schemes, politics, fail -- lines give way -- substances mock and elude me;
Only the theme I sing, the great and strong-possess'd Soul, eludes not;
One's-self must never give way -- that is the final substance -- 
  that out of all is sure;
Out of politics, triumphs, battles, life -- what at last finally remains?
When shows break up, what but One's-Self is sure?

That music always round me, unceasing, unbeginning -- 
  yet long untaught I did not hear;
But now the chorus I hear, and am elated;
A tenor, strong, ascending, with power and health, 
  with glad notes of day-break I hear,
A soprano, at intervals, sailing buoyantly over the tops of immense waves,
A transparent bass, shuddering lusciously under and through the universe,
The triumphant tutti -- the funeral wailings, with sweet flutes and violins --
   all these I fill myself with;
I hear not the volumes of sound merely -- I am moved by the exquisite meanings,
I listen to the different voices winding in and out, striving,
   contending with fiery vehemence to excel each other in emotion;
I do not think the performers know themselves --
  but now I think I begin to know them.

At the last, tenderly,
From the walls of the powerful, fortress'd house,
From the clasp of the knitted locks --
  from the keep of the well-closed doors,
Let me be wafted.

Let me glide noiselessly forth;
With the key of softness unlock the locks -- with a whisper,
Set [ope]1 the doors, O Soul!

Tenderly! be not impatient!
(Strong is your hold, O mortal flesh!
Strong is your hold, O Love.)