Part 3

What do you hear Walt Whitman?
I hear the workman singing and the farmer's wife singing,
I hear in the distance the sounds of children and of animals early
    in the day,
I hear emulous shouts of Australians pursuing the wild horse,
I hear the Spanish dance with castanets in the chestnut shade, to
    the rebeck and guitar,
I hear continual echoes from the Thames,
I hear fierce French liberty songs,
I hear of the Italian boat-sculler the musical recitative of old poems,
I hear the locusts in Syria as they strike the grain and grass with
    the showers of their terrible clouds,
I hear the Coptic refrain toward sundown, pensively falling on the
    breast of the black venerable vast mother the Nile,
I hear the chirp of the Mexican muleteer, and the bells of the mule,
I hear the Arab muezzin calling from the top of the mosque,
I hear the Christian priests at the altars of their churches, I hear
    the responsive base and soprano,
I hear the cry of the Cossack, and the sailor's voice putting to sea
    at Okotsk,
I hear the wheeze of the slave-coffle as the slaves march on, as the
    husky gangs pass on by twos and threes, fasten'd together
    with wrist-chains and ankle-chains,
I hear the Hebrew reading his records and psalms,
I hear the rhythmic myths of the Greeks, and the strong legends of
    the Romans,
I hear the tale of the divine life and bloody death of the beautiful
    God the Christ,
I hear the Hindoo teaching his favorite pupil the loves, wars,
    adages, transmitted safely to this day from poets who wrote three
    thousand years ago.