Whitman's Poem: Proud music of the storm!

First published around this time in 1869 in The Atlantic. Stirs me whenever I read it. Some parts of the poem:

Pround music of the storm!

Blast that careers so free, whistling across the prairies!

Strong hum of forest tree-tops! Wind of the mountains!

Personified dim shapes! you hidden orchestras!

You serenades of phantoms, with instruments alert,

Blending, with Nature's rhythmus, all the tongues of nations;

You chords left us by vast composers! you choruses!

You formless, free, religious dances! you from the Orient!

You undertone of rivers, roar of pouring cataracts;

You sounds from distant guns, with galloping cavalry! 10

Echoes of camps, with all the different bugle-calls!

Trooping tumultuous, filling the midnight late, bending me powerless,

Entering my lonesome slumber-chamber--Why have you seiz'd me?

...

I hear the dance-music of all nations,

The waltz, (some delicious measure, lapsing, bathing me in bliss;)

The bolero, to tinkling guitars and clattering castanets.

I see religious dances old and new,

I hear the sound of the Hebrew lyre,

I see the Crusaders marching, bearing the cross on high, to the martial clang of cymbals;

I hear dervishes monotonously chanting, interspersed with frantic shouts, as they spin around, turning always towards Mecca;

I see the rapt religious dances of the Persians and the Arabs;

Again at Eleusis, home of Ceres, I see the modern Greeks dancing,

I hear them clapping their hands, as they bend their bodies,

I hear the metrical shuffling of their feet.