The day getting ready for me when I shall do as much good as the best, and be as prodigious; By my life-lumps! becoming already a creator, Putting myself here and now to the ambush’d womb of the shadows.
A call in the midst of the crowd, My own voice, orotund sweeping and final.
Come my children, Come my boys and girls, my women, household and intimates, Now the performer launches his nerve, he has pass’d his prelude on the reeds within.
Easily written loose-finger’d chords—I feel the thrum of your climax and close.
My head slues round on my neck, Music rolls, but not from the organ, Folks are around me, but they are no household of mine.