[...] Whoever you are, now I place my hand upon you, that you be my poem;I whisper with my lips close to your ear,I have loved many women and men, but I love none better than you.
O I have been dilatory and dumb;I should have made my way straight to you long ago;I should have blabb’d nothing but you,I should have chanted nothing but you.
I will leave all, and come and make the hymns of you;None have understood you, but I understand you;None have done justice to you—you have not done justice to yourself;None but have found you imperfect—I only find no imperfection in you [....]
There’s a Whitman poem I am keen to set for soprano and clarinet.
I celebrate my gratitude that I have the privilege to be a choir director; that I have the direction of a choir who are game to put together such a concert as we shall together present tomorrow; celebrate the fact that, thanks to my changed circumstances resulting from this appointment, I can spend today preparing for the concert, doing a little grocery shopping, and taking two nice walks around the pond.
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