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50
TO A PIANIST
Your delicate fingers on the keyboard make
The riotous notes beat swift as driving rain
With thunder in its pauses, and constrain
The spirit of music's inmost heart to awake.
Once more, once more, bid rise and swoon and ache
This song of Schumann's filled with tremulous pain,
Rapture and peace and joy that soars again
In fierce delight of love for love's own sake!
The riotous notes beat swift as driving rain
With thunder in its pauses, and constrain
The spirit of music's inmost heart to awake.
Once more, once more, bid rise and swoon and ache
This song of Schumann's filled with tremulous pain,
Rapture and peace and joy that soars again
In fierce delight of love for love's own sake!
How vain, in sight of yours, seems this my art!
For could I play, or paint you, I could deem
My art not wholly worthless of its theme:
But I who lack all things that else might move
Your inmost eyes to read my longing heart—
I can but fill a sonnet with my love!
For could I play, or paint you, I could deem
My art not wholly worthless of its theme:
But I who lack all things that else might move
Your inmost eyes to read my longing heart—
I can but fill a sonnet with my love!
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