 | Poems (1895) |  |
117
XLVII. WRITTEN AFTER HEARING GREAT MUSIC.
Pianoforte! ne'er before, perchance,Thy alien name with English verse was blent;
But now 'tis meet thou to that place advance,
As rival to whatever instrument:
This Priestess of thy spirit-mysteries
Makes thee oracular; and harmonies
Soar from beneath her touch, which sing aloud
Of things imagined, but not seen nor known:
The rush of angels' wings; the flit of elves',
The creatures of the rainbow and bright cloud;
And the loved Dead, who in our dreams appear:
Cramer and Hummel, 'tis believed, are gone;
Yet in this heaven-of-sound we seem to hear,
Not echoes of them, but their living selves.
St. Helier, 31 March 1869.
| Poems (1895) | |